Tangled Bonds
by Alisha6
Summary: Sequel to 'The Warmth.' In a post-Voldemort wizarding world, the elite have hunted all of his followers, now it's down to nine. Now the elite look to Draco Malfoy, will he fail or break through the tangled bonds of his past relationships?
1. Prologue

Prologue 

**Ronald Weasley**

***~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~**

**"Oh once there was a girl, who came from not too far from here**

**She wasn't satisfied at the rate that she applied**

**Herself, to the items on the shelf**

**She was a retail girl**

**It really has to do with nothing**

**All though she gave me something**

**A smile I'll rely on for a lifetime**

**I'll try on for a while**

**So now, why is she getting married on the 25th of April?**

**She believes, in higher energy**

**And better things for all the people**

**She's a charm of good luck**

**When she's sitting by your side**

**But I think my luck runs out on April 25th**

**Oh, Love oh love**

**Is all I'm looking for**

**Sitting in the corner in the dark**

**Oh hoping that she finds me**

**I'm looking right away**

**But I'll never find the right thing to say**

**Oh I'll never find the right kind of phrase."**

**'Right Kind of Phrase' Jason Mraz**

***~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~**

She was beautiful; the redheaded man could feel a solitary chill roll down his spine, even though fires in all of its three hundred fireplaces were carefully controlling the temperature inside the expansive castle.

He looked down at her, trying to figure out what he had waited so long to tell her. He bit his lip, as an empty draft slightly billowed the end of her bone white dress. Ron tried to fight back the crude thought of her selected color to wear for the special occasion. He could feel his hand rise to his shirt, as he struggled to adjust the vest of his lavish tuxedo. She had requested everyone, wizards too, to wear them.

"What's this about Ron?" her voice rang through his ears. He wished nothing more then to wrap his arms around her, and carry her off into the darkness. However, he remained frozen, staring down at her, in awe at her sheer beauty.

"Why are you doing this to me?" Ron asked, his voice trembling. He could almost feel Hermione's heart sink in disappointment. Had she expected him to pull her into that bathroom to tell her that she was making a good call? Had she expected him to smile at her, give her a hug, and congratulate her? Even worse, had she expected him to agree with her, and completely disregard, and forget the years they had spent together?  She stared at him, eyes wide, but they remained dry. Her arms were outstretched as if she was calling out to the gods for some sort of modern miracle, for something to magically change his mind, for something to make him _see_ what she wanted, and what she didn't want.

"To you?" she asked in a quaking, soft, but subtle tone.  "I'm not doing anything to you Ronald." She muttered, Ron could feel his face contort into a sneer; she had dared to call him by his given name.

"Not doing anything to me?" he spat at her, he could feel his arms outstretch, as he bent down to look into her soft brown eyes.

"You're killing me with this! I've asked you time and time again to turn back, not to do it. To come back to me." Ron spat at her again. He could feel his heart lurch precariously in its small chamber within his chest.  

"I made a mistake Hermione." He raised is hands, and placed them upon the soft skin of her cheeks. "Don't punish me, I couldn't bear another day like this." He said his voice barely above a whisper. She remained silent, her arms still outstretched, as she awaited her miracle, much to Ron's surprise, she stepped away from him, and looked up at him, a strange look of love in her eyes. 

"Ron, it's been six years." Her voice was shaking, Ron was unsure if it was from jitters or from guilt. "It's been so long, I've moved on. Don't you think it's about time you move on too?"

He stared at her. Her eyes were wide, and still miraculously dry. He wished he could hammer into her head how much he loved her, and those six years were not enough. No time was ever enough; he couldn't deny the fact that he wanted her in her gorgeous bone white ensemble, and beautiful bouquet, by his side, and his side only. Ron bowed his head in shame, fighting to keep his sorrowful tears at bay.

"Please," she reached for his hand, but Ron pulled away, surprising her and Ron himself. He had never willingly pulled back from her, ever. Now he was doing it willingly. Ron rubbed his face, suddenly realizing that she would be a Weasley in a matter of minutes. 

"Go," Ron whispered, his voice very hoarse. For the first time since she entered the small bathroom, she shed a tear. Unlike the tears that sat waiting to flow from Ronald Weasley's eyes, her's seemed to be tears of joy. She stepped towards him, her arms still outstretched, her fists clenched, she had caught her miracle. She brushed her soft pink lips across his freckled cheek and stepped back from him.

"You don't know how much this means to me Ron. To _us._" She smiled at him through her apparent tears of joy. Ron was biting his lip hard enough to draw blood.

"Yeah well," Ron shoved his hands in his pockets, as she looked up at him in anticipation, waiting for him to give her a few kind words. However, Ron couldn't bear to bring himself to do it, all he could do was repeat his small command, in a low hoarse voice. "Just go," 

She looked up at him one last time, before stepping away, for what it felt like the final time. She kissed her index finger softly and blew him a final kiss, similar to the ones she used to blow to him when they were in love, but that was now in the past, far in the past.

He watched her leave, managing to keep his composure until he heard the heavy oak door slam. He felt his knees buckle as if he had been holding an entire castle upon his shoulders. Ron slowly slumped to the floor, his back up against his the cold stone wall. He hit the floor with a loud thump, his heart pounding in his throat, as he broke down into uncontrollable sobs. He had lost her.

She would be walking down the aisle, a grin on her face, and love in her eyes. The man that had loved her enough to ask for her hand in marriage would be standing at the end of the aisle, beside the alter in an uncomfortably stiff tuxedo. There under the alter, they will meet and be pronounced man and wife. And there, she will finalize the relationship that Ron could never bring himself to agree with. He still was in a semi-state of shock over the fact that Hermione would ever stray from him. However, she had. She had fallen in love, or so she said, and she had been swept off her feet, as she often told Ron candidly. He wiped his eyes bitterly as he rose to his feet, fighting the tears; his mother had begged him to be at her wedding, "If not for her, then for your brother. It means a lot to him, you being there." she would often preach.  Ron stepped out of the bathroom and slammed the oak door behind him. A grinning Ginny Weasley stood outside the door in an elegant Maid of Honor gown.

"Hurry up Ron! The ceremony's starting!" she said excitedly. She grabbed his hand, as he forced a small smile on his face, even though he could feel his heart cracking open.

"Yeah," Ron quipped softly, "Can't be late to my own brother's wedding." He muttered softly. Ginny, too exited to take note of Ron's grim tone, continued to drag Ron down the hallway. The wedding march had already begun.

One by one, groomsmen, and bridesmaids made their way down the aisle. Ron hesitantly took the arm of an auburn haired Muggle by the name of Jessica. A small string quartet played a pleasant tune as the pair of them walked down the aisle. The girl gave Ron an uneasy smile; she knew perfectly well, who he was and his family connections to the groom. Ron could feel the eyes of the entire church upon him as he walked past the groom. He looked up at the person he had grown up with, fought with, played with, and learned with, his eyes were wide in joy, as he stuck out a hand for his little brother to take. Ron could feel himself hesitate, to stare down at the hand that were used to put mild hexes on him after an argument, or often picked him up from a fall only seconds later. The freckled man took it, and looked up into his brother's eyes. Ron watched his expression silently change into a low frown, perhaps it had registered in his mind how much he was hurting Ron by going through with the wedding. He looked up at him; Ron was five inches taller. 

"I love her Ron," he whispered to him. Ron fought to hold back his tears, his hand still clenched on to his older brother's. "But, I love you too." He whispered again, Ron could feel his body tighten shortly before his brother finally reached him. He quickly took his place beside a somber faced Harry Potter, Ron wondered if it was the years of fighting and combating dark wizards that had wiped any lack of happiness off Harry's face, or perhaps it was his discrepancy of the wedding. Harry turned to look at Ron.

"That was wise of you, not to make a scene." Harry said, his voice barely above a whisper. Ron turned away from him, his eyes dead set on Hermione as the quartet began to play the wedding march. Ron swallowed the lump in his throat; he couldn't hate her for falling in love. He turned to face George one last time, before quickly adverting his eyes, swallowing almost all compassion he held for his brother. He still couldn't deny the fact that he had felt betrayed by them both. Hermione Granger had fallen in love with George Weasley. This was not how Ron had pictured her future to be; he had never felt more abandoned in his life. 

Ron closed his eyes shortly, wishing that he would wake up form his nightmare, but he opened then to find himself still in the church, hurting, and alone.

*~*~*~*~*~

That was the Prologue of Tangled Bonds, the sequel to The Warmth. The title isn't a song title  Yay! 

Any questions or comments, you can review, or e-mail me. I'm very friendly!

Alisha0715@sbcglobal.net


	2. Part One

Part One of Tangled Bonds Part One Hermione Granger-Weasley 

***~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~**

" _I'm so tired of being here_ _Suppressed by all of my childish fears_

**_And if you have to leave_**

**_I wish that you would just leave_**

**_Because your presence still lingers here_**

**_And it won't leave me alone_**

These wounds won't seem to heal 

**_This pain is just too real_**

**_There's just too much that time cannot erase_**

**_When you cried I'd wipe away all of your tears_**

**_When you'd scream I'd fight away all of your fears_**

**_And I've held you hand through all of these years_**

**_But you still have all of me_**

**_You used to captivate me_**

**_By your resonating light_**

**_But now I'm bound by the life you left behind_**

**_Your face it haunts my once pleasant dreams_**

**_Your voice it chased away all the sanity in me_**

**_I've tried so hard to tell myself that you're gone_**

**_And though you're still with me_**

**_I've been alone all along."_**

'My Immortal' Evanescence 

*~*~*~*~*~*

Hermione  slowly made her way into the large shop, having been expanded by magic five years prior, located on Ninety-Three Diagon Alley. She smiled at a group of young children excitedly chattering over a large display of Skiving Snack boxes. Hermione made her way past the children and towards the checkout desk, which was located near the back of the expansive shop.

"Hello there Hermione!" a familiar voice rang from behind the counter. She shoved her hands in the pockets of her torn jeans, before approaching the desk. She grinned at the red-headed men behind the counter.

"Hello Fred." She smiled, Fred grinned at her before returning his attention to a large display of what appeared to be quills.

"Weasley's Wizard Wheezes are selling _quills?_" Hermione exclaimed in a mock astonished tone. Fred adverted his eyes from the display momentarily, before whipping it around revealing a large sign; _Quacky Quills. _

"Hermione, feast your eyes on the newest product fresh from the minds of Fred and George Weasley. You see, they look like what sort of sweet confectionary treat?" Fred paused in expectation of the ginger-haired woman's reply, but quickly continued when Hermione remained silent, slightly shaking from suppressed giggles. "Sugar quills! They work just like Sugar Quills, but of course, they are quacky! There's ridiculously amusing charms at the end of them, care to try one?" he asked, shoving a Quacky Quill in her face. Hermione smiled at him, before gently pushing the quill back down on the counter.

"No thanks Fred," Hermione paused, attempting to peer behind Fred and into the back of the shop. 

"So what brings you by here on a Saturday?" Fred asked her as he put the Quacky Quill back into his proper place on the display. Hermione smiled at him again, she could feel a strange sense of pride to see how far Fred and George have progressed with their joke shop. Despite Mrs. Weasley's misgivings about the situation, it had rewarded Fred and George quite lavishly. By the end of the shop's third year, the twins had managed to purchase themselves neighboring flats near Muggle London. However, not only was the business lucrative it was booming, the twins had just opened there fifth shop in Milan, Italy. 

"To pick up George so we can go meet Harry and Ron." Hermione replied, her hands still in her pockets. "Where is he by the way?" she asked, She could feel her stomach tighten into yet another knot, she hadn't seen Harry or Ron since her wedding three months prior. However, the thought of George being by her side made the potential confrontation less daunting then it really was. Hermione hesitantly pulled her hands out of her pockets to wipe off the beads of sweat on her palms. Fred watched her dark brown eyes linger to the door behind him, he heaved a heavy sigh before speaking.

"You just missed him. Ron came by and…" Fred's voice trailed off, but Hermione quickly finished his sentence for her, "They had a row, they both stormed off" She muttered. Hermione could feel her face flush a bright shade of red, she hated even thinking that she had caused Ron and George to fight one another.  Hermione sighed, not bothering to ask Fred what the row was about.

"Well," Hermione sighed, "He probably went home. I should get going," she murmured. Fred flashed her a strange sympathetic look before giving her a small wave. Hermione turned on her heel, the children investigating the Skiving Snack boxes had long disappeared. Hermione stepped out onto the bustling streets of Diagon Alley, it was late February, and the crowded shopping haven had just settled down from the holiday seasons and Valentines day. Hermione haphazardly pulled up her jacket back onto her shoulders, which had fallen precariously off her arms, she had chosen not to wear robes for Harry wanted to meet her at a small Muggle café not far from the Leaky Cauldron in Muggle London.

Hermione ran a hand through her curly brown hair, before biting her lip, as she drifted into her own thoughts. She understood why Ron was so upset about her relationship with George, but she still couldn't bring herself to realize how much pain she caused him. She wasn't even sure how she had fallen head over heels for George, but the act was done, she was now his wife.

Hermione's life after Hogwarts had not been the easiest after her sixth year at Hogwarts. She returned to Hogwarts for her seventh year, more submissive and quiet then she ever had been. She graduated alongside Harry and Ron, her best friends. However, as Harry and her grew apart from each other, Hermione had grown close to Ron as their relationship slowly began to change. 

Lord Voldemort was a lingering presence in the wizarding community. Hogwarts was turned upside down, many parents had refused to send their children back to the school, afraid of the dangers that remained there, even under Albus Dumbledore's protective eyes. 

Along with this hidden threat came Harry's isolation from Hermione and Ron. He had went out of his way to be alone, and he single handedly carried the weight of all his frustrations for he held too much pride to relieve himself by talking about them and opening up to someone. As the years passed, Hermione watched Harry grow distant, but she never really noticed it at the time.  She was blinded, for her head was in the clouds, and her heart was wide open, in Ron's hands.

She wasn't sure how she and Ron's relationship came about but it happened slowly. Hermione had kept her heart under lock and key for almost two years after the haunting night on the Astronomy tower. Meanwhile, her relationship with him was constantly changing, they fought less, and she seemed to spend more time with him. At the time, she never really wanted to admit to herself that talking to Harry was no longer comforting, it was stressful. She couldn't deal with anymore, all her senses and her emotions had been on overdrive for too long, she needed a rest and Ron was her rest. 

"Wotcher!" a burly dingy looking wizard exclaimed when Hermione slammed into him, bumping her out of her meditative thoughts. Hermione opened her mouth to apologize but opted against it as she continued to walk towards the Leaky Cauldron.

Hermione made her way past a crowd of middle-aged wizards talking exuberantly about the Chudley Cannon's winning streak. Ten years prior, the team had gone decades without winning, but since the second war had calmed, the team had taken a strong turn around. Some people believe it was bound to happen, but Hermione personally liked to think it was because of the team's new owner, Ron. Hermione could feel a smile creep across her face as she remembered the day Ron had told her the great news.  He told her how Roman Hearse, the past owner of the Chudley Canons, whom Ron had befriended at his job in the Ministry's Department of Games and Sports, was finally fed up with the team's losing streak, and handed the reigns to him. Reaction to the new owner of the Chudley Cannons were mixed, some people were happy that the team was going to receive new management. However, other people, were silently hoping for the youngest male Weasley to fail.

Hermione quietly  hit the bricks in the alley mindlessly as she stepped out onto Charing Cross Road. Hermione suddenly shivered as she felt the temperature drop a few degrees. The ginger-haired woman pulled up her jacket again, silently reminding herself to buy another jacket in smaller size.

She finally reached the small café after twenty minutes of slow walking, and heavy contemplating. She suddenly was becoming uncomfortable, not sure how to act or feel. Should she be happy that she was seeing her best friend, Harry Potter, after months of him being abroad? Should she avoid the subject of Ron not being there? Was he going to ask her if she had lost her mind marrying George Weasley? Hermione bit her lip cautiously as she recalled Harry's face on her wedding day; it was far from a happy one, yet it wasn't angry, it was blank, and empty. She could feel herself breathe another heavy sigh as she pushed open the glass door of LeBovers Café, the warm air causing her cheeks to flush slightly, the sweet smell of roasting coffee filing her lungs. Hermione forgot all of her doubts when she saw him, she could feel her heart grow warm.

Harry Potter was seated lazily in the corner of the café wearing baggy jeans and a sweatshirt. His hair was considerably longer than Hermione had remembered, and his face still carried the same stony expression. She walked over to him, and outspread her arms. 

"Hello there." Harry said softly, he stood up slowly with arms outstretched, Hermione too excited to notice how unwillingly he had done this. Hermione gave him a tight hug before finally releasing him and sitting back down. Harry flashed her a small smile, that strangely appeared to Hermione as a wince instead of a grin. Harry picked up the small foam cup before him, taking a slow sip, the steam escaping from the beverage fogging up his wire-rimmed glasses.

"Harry, it's so good to see you." She said to him heartily. A small woman wearing a dark green apron approached the table before Hermione had the chance to say anything else.

"What can I get for you today ma'am?" she asked her, Hermione sat down across from Harry, who the waitress had already served, before turning back to the waitress. The girl rolled her eyes, "What can I get for you?" She obnoxiously asked again, nosily cracking her gum in the middle of the sentence. Hermione slowly placed her left hand on the back of her neck, a strange habit she had picked up over the years.

"I'll just have a cup of joe." Hermione said energetically, ignore the waitress' impatience, suddenly feeling excited to be facing Harry after three months apart.  The bright brown haired waitress stared at her a moment, a strange expression on her face, before she quickly scribbled down Hermione's order and walked away. Hermione turned back to Harry, a mad grin plastered onto her face.

"How have you been ol' Harry?" she asked. Harry stared at her, she looked at his eyes, something had changed about them. Harry lowered his head as if he hadn't heard her question.

"Where's George?" Harry asked stoically, her fingers tracing the rim of his Styrofoam cup. Hermione could feel the grin on her face instantly vanish.

"Where's Ron?" she snapped back. Harry looked up at her, his fingers still running circles around the rim of his cup.  Hermione could feel her body instantly tense up, slightly feeling a pang of guilt for wanting nothing more than George's hand wrapped protectively around her's. Harry rolled his eyes before lifting his steaming hot beverage to his lips. Hermione looked around uncomfortably, desperately scanning the confines of her mind to come up with a topic of conversation that would not upset Harry.

"I'm sorry Harry. I know your upset with me, and you feel that I made the wrong choice, but I love George. So please, can you and I sit down and talk to each other, I mean really _talk_?" Hermione finished her sentence feeling slightly winded, she looked up at Harry. Harry opened his mouth to speak, but the teenaged waitress plodded back to the table, and with a loud crack placed a foam cup in front of her. Hermione looked back up at Harry; he was seething.

"About? I can't sit here and pretend like I'm not upset with you." Harry replied hastily. Hermione grumbled to herself as she reached for the creamer resting besides Harry's clenched fist. She always had known Harry and Ron would always stick together, but there was nothing she hated more than to have them sticking together against her. She sighed, wishing that Ron and George were there. Allowing her to explain herself, exactly as she had countless times before. Ron had hurt her, and she felt she couldn't go on again, for love only seemed to mean hurt to her. However, when George slowly emerged as an important figure in her life, for the first time in a decade, love made her laugh not cry. He made her smile, not frown, and her made her heart swell instead of throb.  Why couldn't the men that she called her _best _friends understand that she loved the way he made her feel. She never knew following her heart would also mean losing her friends. 

Hermione bit her lip, struggling to fight back tears, Hermione silently reminded herself to tell off George about not showing up, leaving her facing an upset Harry alone. Hermione let out a loud sigh, before quickly changing the subject.

"How was your trip? Romania right?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, she was still resisting the urge to burst into tears. 

"I caught one." Harry replied blandly. Hermione could feel all the muscles in her body tighten at once, she knew of what kind of person Harry was speaking of. Hermione worked at the Ministry Magic. She was in charge of employing Hit Wizards to track common criminals. Everyday to get to her medium sized office on Level Two, Hermione would walk past the Ministry's Auror headquarters. Ever since the appointment of a new Minister of Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt , the headquarters had doubled in size, including the number of Aurors. Hermione could clearly remember her last year of Hogwarts, everyone was on edge and living in fear, and it was Kingsley Shacklebolt's goal to change that. As Voldemort's league of loyal devotees, Deatheaters, grew, so did his power. Muggles and Wizards alike were being murdered, and everything was in an uproar, when it happened. The Boy Who Lived, and the Dark Lord himself had met face to face in the small village of Godric's Hollow, the same place where Harry had received his lightning shaped scar. There, a battle ensued, the details Harry would never reveal, but he emerged, alive. Ever since that fateful night, the goals of the Ministry had changed, and so had Harry's. On a conjured up wall in the middle of the large and bustling Auror's Headquarters, were exactly nine-hundred and seventy three moving photographs of known Deatheaters from all over the world at large. On the other side were photos of slain or captured Deatheaters. Over the eight years that passed after  Lord Voldemort's defeat , the list had dwindled considerably, as Deatheaters were being caught on a daily basis. However Hermione could feel her heart grow heavy Every time she passed that wall, for there were now ten moving pictures there. Draco Malfoy was one of them. 

Draco's name sent a shiver down Hermione's spine, he had been lingering in the back of her mind ever since she had awoken. Hermione's heart couldn't help but remember what happened exactly ten years ago, Hermione bit her lip as she looked up at Harry, _did he know?_ She could feel her mind ponder.

"So, A.H. is down to nine now." Hermione said, calling the Auror's Headquarters by it's now honored nickname, she reached out and grabbed her foam cup, taking a large sip of her coffee, trying to get the lump in her throat to dissipate. Harry nodded, his emerald eyes scanning hers as if he was reading her mind.

"Don't you want to know who I caught Hermione?" Harry asked, his voice unusually cold. His fingers were still moving in their familiar circular motions.  Hermione wished nothing more for him to stop, for the sight of it was making her nauseous.

"It's not Malfoy, if that's what you were wondering." He snapped callously. Hermione could feel her stomach jump violently at the mention of his name, she covered her mouth, fighting the urge to vomit all over the table. Why was Harry doing this to her? 

"I've been tracking Bellatrix Lestrange for a year now." Harry paused, "I found her in Romania," his voice trailed off as his eyes suddenly went blank again. "Same village where Tonks almost nabbed Malfoy eight years ago, vermin tend to gather together, don't they?" he asked callously. She lowered her head, her eyes and heart stinging slightly, her pride had been bruised. She had remained silent over the years about Draco. The entire wizarding world, including Harry, George, and Ron, considered Malfoy a murderer, a criminal, and a loyal follower of Lord Voldemort. Harry had made a strange development during their eventful sixth year at Hogwarts, he was beginning to realize that Draco too was a person, with feelings, and wants, and needs. After his disappearance,  Harry's mentality, along with everyone else's seemed to fall back in time. To them, Draco was nothing more than a Deatheater, another picture on the wall, and another picture away from complete victory.  Hermione kept her hand over her mouth, suddenly losing her desire for her caffeine fix, and for George to be there by her side,  or for her friends to forgive her and move on. She wanted nothing more than to get out of that café, and miles away from Harry. She lowered head, Bellatrix Lestrange was the Deatheater that killed Harry's godfather and mentor.

"So she's in Azkaban?" Hermione asked softly. Harry continued to stare off into the distance, his eyes on nothing in particular, she watched him grit his teeth together as he suppressed his anger yet again. Harry was implosive, a ticking time bomb, his Hogwarts years he had managed to suppress this part of his personality. However after his Auror training, Harry had became cold, hard and calloused. Hermione was often brought to tears, longing for her friend, he was gone.

"I killed her." Harry replied blandly. Hermione blinked twice, and sat up in her seat, praying that she didn't hear Harry say such a thing. She knew perfectly well that killing was disapproved by Kingsley Shacklebolt, and she knew Harry had a vendetta against Bellatrix, however she never imagined that he'd actually murder her.

"Oh Harry…" Hermione moaned as big fight tears rolled down her eyes. Harry continued to stare at her, she almost felt like she was melting under his indifferent gaze. 

"Don't even start Hermione." Harry commanded, "I did what I had to do. It was either me or her. Is it wrong to chose _me _for once 'Mione?" Harry asked, he learned forward until his face was only inches for her. Hermione bowed her head, rubbing at her cheeks, wishing the tears would stop coming, but they continued. "You would know what that's like, always thinking about yourself," Harry spat at her, she could feel the warmth of his breath, and the raw fury emitting from his being. She hadn't realized how upset he was until she looked into his eyes. 

"Why won't you just empathize with me for two seconds?" Hermione asked sorrowfully. Harry suddenly backed away, his expression softened for a second, before he snapped right back to a look of fury. Hermione continued, trying to make Harry understand how sorry she was. "We used to understand each other, we supported one another's decisions, and we've been there for each other. Why are we letting something like this tear us apart? What's _happened _to us Harry?" she asked him. Harry looked around the café hastily before turning to her.

"I just wanted to let you know you've made a big mistake Hermione. You're setting yourself up for disappointment…" Harry's voice trailed off, he looked up at her,  both his hands were not clenched into solid fists. "Don't pretend like you don't know. It's the anniversary, Hermione." He mumbled. Hermione could feel her heart leap out, almost out of her chest, for he was the first person to say it out loud. She knew throughout the whole day, she couldn't avoid the stares when she went to the Ministry to get something from her office, for she knew what all of them were thinking. Hermione suddenly felt ashamed that she let her guard down, tears were flowing freely out of her eyes, and the Muggles in the café were slowly turning there eyes to the couple in the corner. Harry leaned forward, and much to Hermione's surprise, grabbed her hand. His touch was no longer soft, it was rough and she noticed a slightly raised scar running from the base of his thumb to the knuckle of his ring finger. Hermione continued to cry, Harry's haunting advice from a decade passed, as he repeated it to her again.

"Don't make the same mistake twice 'Mione." He said, his voice sounding tender for the first time in nearly six years. The last time he had ever spoken to her in such a way, was when Ron had broken up with her. Hermione put her head on a table, as a stifled sob escaped her achy lungs, as she remembered all of the things she had been suppressing for years. The pain she had suppressed after letting her heart give in to Draco's charms, then Sam's short appearance in her life, his death, Draco's disappearance, falling in love with her best friend, Ron Weasley. The frustration she had bottled up after the awful fight she had with Ron after he had learned of Hermione's attempts to reunite him with his brother Percy. The anger from spending almost five years of her life in complete isolation and loneliness as she buried herself into her job, trying to beat all thoughts of how love had ravaged her heart out of her system. She was weeping, releasing all of her fears. The calming feeling of falling in love again had excited her so much, it left her almost blind to her friends' feelings. She could feel Harry's hand on her back, along with the eyes of everyone in the small establishment. Hermione slowly raised her head, Harry looked both ways cautiously as if he was preparing to do something he was not supposed to do. He leaned forward and kissed her cheek, however when Hermione expected him to pull away, he remained by her ear.

"I've found him," he whispered. At first, Hermione could not comprehend the words, she could feel her mind pause, and a strange feeling surface from deep within her, it was a dull ache in the pit of her stomach. Hermione opened her mouth to speak, but nothing emerged. Was he really saying what she thought he was saying? "He has information that the Order _needs _to find out to track down the last of the Deatheaters." Harry continued. She continued to stay at him, too startled to continue wallowing in her own misery. Harry took a long sip before sitting the Styrofoam  back down on the table. He grabbed his beaten leather coat and tossed it lazily across his shoulder.

"I suggest you speak with Ron while I'm gone."  Harry said, his warm exterior melted away, as he returned to his blank mood. He walked towards the door, and exited the café, the door clicked shut, as Hermione turned back to her own thoughts. The teenaged waitress walked back to the table, her gum gone. 

"Boyfriend being a prat?" the girl asked, Hermione stared at her, before giving her a minute answer.

"I'm married." She muttered. The girl looked at her, putting the bill softly on the table before her.

"I'm sorry, but you can always get a divorce can't you?" she asked rather obnoxiously. Hermione ignored her as she reached inside her jacket pocket and pulled out a few pounds, not bothering to correct her mistake.

Hermione got up and silently left the shop, her thoughts weighing her down as she walked into an abandoned alleyway. She reached into her other pocket containing her wand, and quickly disapparated with a loud pop.  Hermione reemerged in the foyer of her and George's home located on the outskirts of London. Hermione threw off her coat and tossed it into the cluttered closet of the foyer. Her shoes quickly followed the jacket as Hermione wiped at her bright red face. She could hear George's voice from the kitchen as he talked in a soft tone. She slowly sauntered into the kitchen, and straight towards the fridge to pull out a bottle of water. She turned to George who had just turned away from the fire.

"Hermione!" he exclaimed, slightly startled by her presence. Hermione stared at George, trying to drudge up slight resentment towards him, but she couldn't do it. All she could think about was what Harry had said. Perhaps her mind was playing tricks on her, or Harry was playing tricks on her, either or, she couldn't accept the fact that Draco could be anywhere. Over the years, she had simply thought of him as a ghost, a shell of his former self, one that she would never want to see. Hermione bit her lip before she took a small sip from her water bottle. 

"George, you could've said something to me if you weren't going to come." Hermione muttered, her voice taking on a slightly whiny tone. She continued to stare at George, something was slightly off about him. She noticed he was wearing a crisp white dress shirt, a dark burgundy sweater, and a giant oversized bowtie. His face was slight dingy, specks of ash rested among the small batch of freckles across his cheeks. George's eyes quickly fell from hers onto the black and white linoleum.

"Who were you just talking to?" Hermione asked, her eyes falling onto the fireplace, which was now glowing a pale green. She walked closer to George and sat down at the stool in front of him. His face emitted flushed a dark shade of red.

"I was just talking to Fred," George said stiffly, he quickly turned his body towards her, blocking Hermione's sight of the fireplace. Hermione could hear herself sigh loudly as George approached her, she knew all of his little tendencies, even the strange face he made when he was lying. Too exhausted to wonder why George would lie to her, she bowed her head as George placed both of his hands upon her moist cheeks, his eyes softening as he brushed his lips over hers. Hermione could feel her heart flutter, than fall into her pelvis as she felt a familiar sensation to cry, as a surge of guilt washed over her body, she didn't deserve all of this, she didn't deserve George.

"I'm sorry about not showing up, Ron came by the shop and…" George's voice trailed off, he removed his hands from her face, and wrapped them around her waist protectively. "It's official, he hates me more than Percy." He said in a slightly teasing tone. Hermione could feel tears began to steadily down her cheeks, touched at George's attempt to cheer her.

"He won't even talk to me, and Harry…" Hermione's voice trailed off as she buried her face into George's fuzzy sweater. She could feel his grip around her tighten as she cried, rubbing her back in a slightly maternal way. He was soothing her soul, letting her frustration escape her, instead of inciting it more by inquiring what had happened between Harry and her. Hermione cried for several minutes, her face buried in the endless wool of George's sweater until she finally pulled away, he wiped at her tears and planted a loving kiss on her forehead.

"Better?" he asked her. Hermione nodded wishing he'd embrace her again, but he didn't. He stepped away from her and towards the door of the kitchen.

"Are you going to be okay?" George asked tenderly. Hermione wiped at her face, she wanted nothing more than to jump up and grab onto George and hold on for dear life. However, she was too weak, she nodded, slightly hiccupping as she turned to her water.

"Are you going?" she asked him. George flashed her a small smile as he nodded. Hermione turned away from him, for if she looked again she would cry. 

"Yes." He replied, he disappeared from her sight as he walked out of the kitchen. He could hear him fumbling through the entryway closet, and his footsteps through the silent house before walking back into the kitchen, broom in hand.

"Fred and I have some business to take care at the shop in Moscow. I should be back before daybreak." He explained. Hermione stared at him wearily, not even thinking twice, George was often flying back and forth from shop to shop. George flashed her his token smile, his brown eyes shimmering, he gave her a hearty hug before kissing her cheek and stepping back.

"Love you." Hermione whispered, the words seem to flutter out of her mouth, sailing sweetly and landing right on George. 

"Love you too. I'll be back." He answered, repeating himself about his return. Hermione nodded and waved at him, not wanting him to go. His grin widened more, it was that smile that helped Hermione keep her composure. It kept her going, it kept her alive. Hermione turned her away from him and towards the fire as she heard the door close with a loud click. She was alone now, and the strange thing to her was; all she could think about was Draco.


	3. Part Two

b Part Two Harry Potter 

***~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~**

**"I've done everything as you say**

**I've followed your rules without question**

**I thought it'd would help me see things clearly**

**But instead of helping me to see**

**I look around and it's like I'm blinded**

**I'm spinning out of control**

**Try to focus but everything's twisted**

**And all alone I thought you would be there**

**To let me know I'm not alone**

**But in fact that's exactly what I was**

**I'm spinning out of control**

**I may never know the answer**

**To this famous mystery**

**Where should I go?**

**What should I do?**

**I don't understand what you want from me**

**Cause  I don't know if I can trust you**

**All the things you've said to me**

**I'm spinning out of control**

**Out of control**

**I'm spinning out of control**

**Out of control."**

**Out of Control- Hoobastank**

***~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~**

**/b**

Harry silently pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He was sitting at the head of a giant iron clad table. Around him sat his peers, looking at him expectantly, as if expecting him to grant them all a miracle. He wished they would look away, he wished he could disappear. He lowered his head and cleared his throat as he looked at the man sitting at his side. The elderly man folded his hands and smiled boldly at Harry, dark blue eyes shimmering.

"Harry." He said to him, his soft tone masquerading the obvious command. Harry cleared his throat again, he could feel every pair of eyes upon him.

Harry slowly rose and walked towards the display he had chaotically set up two minutes prior.

"Well…" his voice was trailing off. Where was his mind? He thought to himself angrily, upset at Hermione for bringing him so far off track. Blaming Hermione for fucking up his mindset, his focus, she had finally asked the question he had been asking himself for years. Harry's grip tightened around his wand that was now working as a pointer, he clanked the wand against a moving picture of a scowling Draco Malfoy taken unbeknownst to him eight years prior.

"I have been searching for Draco Malfoy for nearly five years now." Harry said blankly. He watched his fellow members of the Elite look at each other and nod. He could faintly hear "He caught Lestrange last week too."

"Deatheater as of early 1997," Harry clanked his wand against the picture again. All he could see was her face. "He was assumed dead after his disappearance for approximately two years before he was spotted in a wizarding village in Romania by our own Nymphadora Tonks." Harry said indistinctly, not taking his eyes off his display. He could hear faint whispers and Tonks groan.

"However, he managed to hex Tonks and get away. He slid out of sight for almost three years before resurfacing. He is now living as a Muggle in New York City under the alias of Darien Maxwell. I've been carefully tracking his every move, in hopes he'd attempt to contact at least one of his fellow Deatheaters." Harry explained. He turned and looked towards the group of fifteen or so wizard, his eyes resting on a scowling George seated quietly in between Fred and Dumbledore. 

"So tonight, I will use a port key to arrive in New York City. I was apprehend the fugitive, and bring him back hear to headquarters." Harry clanked his wand one final time on a picture he had taken of the small club where Draco Malfoy worked in New York City. The wizards before him exchangedweary glances with each other before George cleared his throat loudly and spoke.

"Why would you want to apprehend Draco Malfoy?" he asked, his tone quite sour. Harry sighed, attempting to swallow the lump in his throat as George glared at him scornfully. Harry's eyes lingered over to a frowning Ron sitting in between his father and Tonks.

"He killed two people, that's why." Harry replied hoarsely. George continued to glare at him before letting a dry laugh escape his lips. Harry knew his motive, trying to embarrass him in front of the Elite. Harry could feel the contempt and jealousy he had for George bottling up inside of him, a painful gut wrenching filling in his solar plexus. He knew exactly why he was doing this; he wanted to see Harry fail.

"Well, can you prove that he killed those people Harry?" George asked haughtily. The other wizards in the room could feel the tension, but they remained tight lipped. Harry bit his lip; he could feel his grip tighten around his wand, wanting nothing more than to blot George out of human existence. Why did he have to marry Hermione and ruin his friendships, his family, and everything else he could think of?

"Prove it?" Harry snapped, his tone rising as his anger sputtered up out from inside of him. " Prove it?" he asked again, his voice growing sharper with each ebbing blow of derision for George. "Two people are lying dead in the ground! That's proof enough!" Harry snapped. George, undeterred by Harry's short temper tantrum, shook his head and looked back down at his hands gently folded upon the table. Harry glared at him, wanting nothing more than to walk over there and punch him in the face for attempting to make him look like a prat in front of his peers. Had they forgotten what he had done? What he had sacrificed? His soul was gone, for them, for the likes of George, and this was how he repaid him? 

"Fine," George said in a slightly mollifying tone. "Let's say Draco Malfoy was guilty of murder, cold blooded murder." He paused slightly as he locked eyes with Harry, his dark brown eyes shimmering mysteriously. "What is the Order going to do with him? He'll be more of a burden than a help. He's been on the run for ten years, and you've been tracking him for five. During those five years, have you had any evidence to believe that he's attempting to contact other Deatheaters?"

Harry paused, his mind pondering the question. He could feel his face flush a bright shade of red, his rage growing. He shook his head spitefully and stared back at George. "I don't need it, Draco Malfoy was friends with those people. We can use him to our benefit, he's the key to catching the rest!" Harry stopped, when he realized he was shouting. 

"The reason," he paused, his voice barely above a whisper, "Why I've come to the Elite tonight, instead of AH…" Harry could feel his voice falter as he thought of the events of the previous day. He had returned from Romania, knowing he had done something extremely wrong. He was caught up in a moment of complete disgust and hate, frustration pent up from years of hurt and pain, emerged as he murdered Bellatrix Lestrange. He could remember the look of disappointment across Kingsley Shacklebolt's face. He was in awe that Harry could commit such a crime without any slight feeling of remorse, while Harry was in awe how Shacklebolt could forget what Lestrange did to Sirius. Harry could feel himself seething as he exhaled deeply, breaking the news to everyone for the first time. "I'm not a part of the AH anymore… The Minister thought it be best if my duties as an auror be suspended…" Harry's voice trailed off before he spoke again, "Indefinitely." 

The room fell silent until Alastor "Mad Eye" Moody spoke up quite objectionably. "Shacklebolt has gone bonkers! Sacking Harry!"  He roared. Harry bowed his head in indignity as more wizards joined in, complaining loudly with each other that Shacklebolt had grown power hungry, and how he was becoming the next Fudge. Harry finally made eye contact with Ron who was looking up at him, a disappointed look on his face. He shook his head at Harry then looked back down. Harry bit his lip, as he could feel his heart sink. Finally revealing that he was no longer a certified Auror confirmed his deepest fears, it set the inevitable into stone, and it was all true. He had been denying it for nearly twenty-four hours; he had been praying that he was in an awful dream, that his I_life/I _was an awful dream. However, it was all real, it was his living nightmare. His job was his life, now it was gone, and he felt like nothing and no one all at the same time. 

The room was in a complete pandemonium for several minutes before a graying Dumbledore stood up slightly, and silenced them. He strolled over to Harry and put his arm about his shoulders reassuringly. 

"Silence… Silence everyone." Dumbledore said calmly, when the room fell silent, he removed his hand from Harry's shoulders and spoke in a cool calm quiet reserve.

"We have a vote to make." Dumbledore paused. "All in favor of apprehending Draco Malfoy and bring him back to Elite headquarters?" 

Simultaneous agreement soon began to circulate around the small stone room. Despite the passing vote, Harry was now feeling lower than he had when he had arrived. George was right, what good would bringing Draco Malfoy back into the picture do him? All he could see was Hermione's tear filled eyes, how could he be her friend, when he couldn't bear to see her happy with George?

"I'll need" Harry's voice waned, why was he asking this anyway? "I'll need someone to accompany me to America." 

Dumbledore turned to him, blue eyes shimmering mysteriously as he turned to the group of wizards in front of him. Harry could feel his heart slightly skip a beat, he knew exactly who Dumbledore was going to choose for him.

"George, how about accompanying Mr. Potter tonight?" the elderly man asked, his tone unusually cheery. George's smug grin was wiped off his face as he realized what Dumbledore had asked him.  However, even though it was phrased as a question, everyone in the Elite knew that Albus Dumbledore's word was set in stone, and in fact this was not a suggestion, it was an order. Harry collapsed and shrunk his display with a flick of his wand, then levitated it into the pockets of his robes. He looked at his watch with stone cold eyes, if he was going to succeed he'd have to get over his resentment towards George for eight hours. 

"Hurry up now." Harry said quickly as he made his way towards the door. George hesitantly rose to his feet, as if moving in slow motion.

"But…" he stammered.

"Yes, George?" Dumbledore asked, folding his hands jovially across his chest.

"But…" George's voice trailed off again. "Why? I mean, why would you want me to go after Malfoy, I don't have any experience in this." He finished, his voice tremulous. Harry could feel his face contort into a sneer, for he had asked why to Dumbledore before. He knew this answer like the back of his hand. Dumbledore placed a reassuring hand upon George's quavering shoulder.

"One does not ask why when he is given an order. Just focus on the task at hand, and you will be rewarded." He smiled at George. The red-headed man looked up at him, his freckle's almost disappearing in the deep crimson that was becoming the shade of his face. George stepped away from the table, handing his broom to his father before turning and sauntering over to Harry.

"Good luck!" Tonks called from her corner of the table. Harry nodded valiantly, while George gave a strange vacant nod. After the two of them walked out of the door of the Elite's meeting room, out into the plain corridor, Harry turned to George, his face still contorted into a sneer.

"Don't fuck this up for me." Harry said bitterly, he could feel the coldness in his voice. George stared at him, eyes wide, but much to Harry's pleasure, reminded silent. He had had enough scorn and ridicule from Hermione, he didn't need anymore, and he didn't want anymore. Maybe she was right, the dark haired man could hear his mind say in disdain. However, as much as he wanted to be the man he had  been before, he couldn't deny the fact that back then, when he was kind, and caring, he was afraid. Now, he was angry, and resentful. He was resentful about his parents, about Hermione losing faith with him, about Sirius' death, even about losing his job. He was Harry Potter, and he was angry. What would he be without it? Years of tracking and killing dark wizards, had left him angry, and blank. So without the rage, he'd be nothing but a blank canvas. A blank, sad, and lonely canvas.


	4. Part Three

Part Three 

**Draco Malfoy (Darien Maxwell)**

***~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~**

**"If melody is my destiny**

**Then what's left of me**

**I'll give to you**

**If next to me**

**Is all that you need to be**

**Would you settle for fantasy?**

**If it's the best you could do**

**Can I have my cake?**

**Can I have you too?**

**Would you follow me**

**Could I ask you to?**

**Would the world between us break these ties**

**We've worked so hard to realize?**

**Can a postcard say**

**What I see in your eyes**

**Could I ever break away?**

**Would I be satisfied**

**And find peace inside**

**Rolling half my life**

**Over broken white lines**

**Will I wake up one morning**

**And see the streaks on the window**

**That the rainstorm makes**

**Could you bear all the weight **

**And the strength that it takes**

**Could I ever break away?"**

**John Mayer- Break Away**

***~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~**

His eyes shone the color of midnight, and his hair was the color of bark. His head was bowed, his hands moving in a smooth circular motion across the rich smooth mahogany wood of the bar. People looking on might assume that he was cleaning, but actually he was using it has a tool of forgetfulness. Maybe if he scrubbed hard enough, he would stop reliving the moment he had been running from for so long. 

"Today is the Twenty Seventh of February, and it has been a cold day indeed in New York City…" the television behind him droned. The auburn haired man could feel himself flinch; it was the anniversary. He wished of nothing more than to returning to his tiny one bedroom apartment around the corner, and curling up to a tiny ball in the corner, trying to erase the memories and the morbid guilt ridden voices within his own conscious. 

He reached for an empty shot glass that a patron had left there an hour prior; it smelled heavily of vodka. The auburn haired man shut his eyes as a painful memory flashed before him.  He could still see the drunken glazed look in Eva's eyes. He could remember the awful choking feeling of death; he could still feel the heat from the green glowering fire, as the dark mark was etched into his skin. He could see himself hovering over Sam Austin's lifeless body. Draco Malfoy shook his head; he could even remember the feeling of all the warmth in Sam's lifeless body silently escaping him. 

He returned to his mindless scrubbing. He could feel the familiar sensation of the cold winter's air brushing past his cheeks as he was sent barreling head first towards the ground. He could remember his lips forming the incantation that temporarily softened the Hogwarts grounds. He could remember his full sprint into the Forbidden Forest. He could still feel the grumbling of his empty stomach after going nearly two weeks without food. He could remember his mind forming the ingenious idea to disguise himself as Lector Malfoy, a long lost cousin of the family. He could feel the pride when he emerged from Gringotts, uncaught, and with bagfuls of galleons to last him a lifetime on the lamb. He could remember the feeling of absolute amazement as he visited all the places he had ever dreamed off. He could still taste the fear, and feel the beads of sweat pouring down his forehead as he narrowly missed being captured by a pink haired auror. His father's death was proof enough that Azkaban was no place for a Malfoy, for any wizard.

There was one emotion that Draco could still hear, taste, feel, see, and touch from his past; it was his love for Hermione. He thought about her everyday, thinking of what could've been, and sometimes what should've been. He almost hated himself for mustering up the strength to write Hermione that reassuring letter that his life was fine; for it was all a lie. Yes, he had managed to live enjoyably for the first two years after his disappearance, but soon his life lost real meaning. In the end, he was still a murderer, he no longer had a home, and he had lost all he had ever loved, he was an orphan, and he was alone.

However, just when Draco had grown to accept his monotonous life, she came. He had moved to the United States, and much to his own dismay, he was living as a Muggle. No matter how much he loved his wizarding community and background, he was no longer safe among them. Muggle New York City was worlds away from London, and the people he knew who were silently hunting him down. Draco strayed away from the Wizarding community in New York, only venturing into the wizarding shopping center, located under the Empire State Building, to purchase ingredients for his numerous appearance altering potions. Then he made the ultimate change; he changed his name, to Damien Maxwell. He chose to keep his initials the same, so he would never forgot who he was, a Malfoy. 

"Hey Maxwell! Get back to work!" A familiar voice rang from the other side of the bar. Draco raised his head up, his lips contorting into a small grin.

"I _am _working." He grinned, his eyes locked on the silhouette now emerging from the shadows. She was short and petite, with flowing blond locks, and a sweet oval shaped face. She had small slightly pursed lips, and at the corner of her eyes, were tiny folds of her pale skin. Draco's smile widened, he loved those lines.

"Working on what?" she walked towards the bar, her brown leather stilettos clacking with each step. "Polishing the bar until you can see that gorgeous mug of yours?" her voice was now dripping with sarcasam. Draco looked up at her, suddenly becoming aware that he could see his reflection in the mahogany of the bar. He hated that face, for he knew it was not his. He had altered the shape of his nose with highly complex potions, he had changed the color of his eyes to a deep blue, he had changed the shape of his jaw, and to finish off the disguise, he had dyed his trademarked silver, almost white blond hair. However, all he could see, behind all the magic, was the visage of his father. Draco hoped it was a delusion, but after years of maintaining a different face, whenever he stared at a reflection, he saw Lucius Malfoy. Draco bit his lip, his eyes lingering down to the scornful face before back to the blonde; she was beaming at him as she sat down. She seated herself on the stool directly across from him. He reached his hand out to her, she took it, and smiled wider at him.

"Hello love…" Draco whispered in a mock seductive tone. The blonde let out a small giggle, she loved the greeting because of the way he pronounced his hello, and his British accent seemed to hug every curve, emphasis, and syllable of each word he uttered. It drove her mad, and Draco loved to excite. Draco let out a small smile, stared at her momentarily before adverting his gaze back to his towel and his constant scrubbing. She was wearing a short bright red miniskirt, and a turtleneck sweater, a long brown cashmere scarf that silently brushed the ground as she walked, and huge chandelier earrings. She was glowing as bright as embers in a fire. However, even on a day such as this, even the world's brightest and warmest glow couldn't erase his haunting memories.

"It's near midnight, I don't understand why you're still here. Didn't you say Bob was closing early tonight?"  She asked brightly. Draco still did not look up at her, into her small chestnut color eyes, he hated those eyes, because they were too reminiscent of eyes he had stared into before. 

"I know Christa, but I think I'll be heading home tonight." He mumbled; the smile on his face had now disappeared. He couldn't do anything tonight; he could barely function without seeing her face, without feeling her skin rubbing against his, without smelling her saccharine smell.  He detested himself for not being able to forget her.

"But.." the blonde stammered, "You said.." her voice trailed off, her eyes began to drop, as the small lines at the corner of her eyes began to crease more than usual. "You told me we'd spend Saturday night together, you…" her voice trailed off yet again. Draco picked up the towel with slightly shaky hands as he turned around and threw it in a small cardboard box underneath the bar.

"I changed my mind." He replied, trying to make his voice seem as detached as possible. His back was now too her as his eyes carefully traced and recorded the levels of all the assortments of alcohol in his stock. Christa and him had often wondered how a bar at a family restaurant could serve so much alcohol. 

"I don't understand why you do this." he could hear Christa say from behind him. Draco remained frozen in his spot, arms at his side, pretending to be doing something, when really all he was doing was trying his best to ignore her. He knew what he was doing; he was hurting her. She had grown to close to him over the years. He tried keeping her at an arms length, so in case if something went wrong, he could disappear, without hurting anyone, and without the heavy burden of his own guilt. However, he had allowed himself to slip with her, repeatedly, she was too close to him. However, he couldn't just cut her off, because he was starting to realize, he needed her as a friend. She was his only friend, and years of being alone had done something to his psyche, to his mentality, it had left him jagged. It had left his heart like a piece of ripped paper, torn and crimpled, rough at the edges, because someone failed to cut with a fine straight blade.

"One minute you're all happy, enjoying life, _living. _Then, _BAM._" The curly headed woman clapped her hands against the top of the bar. "You're depressed, you're avoiding me, and you're ignoring me. You lock yourself up in that shitty apartment of yours and forget about the world. You can't shut me out like this, because I'm not always going to be here." The girl stopped suddenly, as she realized she had said something she didn't mean to say. Draco turned around abruptly, his mind slightly staggering over the words in her last sentence.

"Not going to be here?" he repeated. He leaned forward, pulling up the long dark blue sleeves of his work shirt, suddenly feeling his world spin slightly around him. He couldn't bear the thought of Christa not being there. She looked up at him, her eyes wide in sadness.

"I…" she stammered. "My mother wants me to move back to Philadelphia. This whole New York thing isn't working out." She said slowly, her voice barely above a whisper. She bowed her head, a lock of her honey blonde hair falling out of place. Draco blinked, as he felt a familiar stinging sensation hit his eyes. He wanted to reach out for her, but he remained in the same position. He could feel himself building his wall; didn't he _want_ her to leave? 

"New York isn't working out, or am I not working out?"

Christa stared up at him incredulously, her eyes wide and wet. Draco bit his lip, hoping silently that she would not burst into tears. She opened her mouth, to speak but only a strange sound seemed to escape. "Damien," she choked. "You know that's not true. You're my _best _friend here. I'll be here for you no matter what…" her voice trailed off. Draco bowed his head.

"You don't have to lie to me. I know I have something to do with you moving back." He muttered; he could feel his fist clench as his mind moved from a state of disbelief to a state of anger.

"Damien," she paused. Draco could feel her place her soft hand upon his. "I love you to death, it's not like that, and you know it." She whispered. Draco could feel himself shaking his head, wanting nothing more than to grab Christa by the shoulders, shake her back into reality and tell her the truth. No matter how many times she said she loved him, it just didn't seem right, for he was living a lie. He was lying to her.

"You're running." Draco muttered, mostly to himself than to her. He wished he could warn her, tell her that running was useless and it only made all your problems worse. He was one to know. Christa bit her lip, and opened her mouth like she was going to speak, but only a strange semi moan escaped her cherry red lips. Draco looked at her, yearning to reach out for her, but he could feel his mind building that familiar brick wall, as he yanked his hand out from under hers. He wanted to break through, to talk to her, to tell her the reason why he ran so hot and cold. Why he was so secretive about his past, and why he tried to keep her away. Christa reached for his hands again with a slow tremulous hand, finally placing it down on the sickening raised scar on his left forearm. Draco kept his eyes locked on her as she traced the lines of the skull and the serpent. He couldn't look at it, for it held too much meaning, and too many memoirs. Draco could feel a wave of stomach turning gut wrenching fear hit him like a torpedo. He would often find Christa staring at the mark emblazoned into his skin, but she had never opened her mouth to ask him the scar's origin. 

Draco was a secret. Yes, he had allowed himself to befriend Christa. Yes, he had allowed himself to love Christa, in almost a friendly, endearing and deep way, that didn't technically compare with the love he held for Hermione. That love pulled at him ravenously, requiring all of his effort to numb. The love he felt for Christa was smoothing, relaxing, calming, remedial. It was something he didn't want to numb. Yes, he had allowed Christa to love him in such a way back, but he was yet to come out to her, and tell her of his past. He had remained silent, only telling her of his British origin, and he was yet to tell her he was an orphan. He never told her about Hermione, or Vincent Barboyle, his illness, his past relationships and friendships, and he never dared let her in on the fact that he was different than her. 

Now here they were, her soft fingers tracing the mark that symbolized his downfall. His eyes were low, and his heart heavy, for he knew what was next. He wished he could disappear, but her lips had already formed a question. Next thing he knew, he was at the point of breaking, his arm arched, in preparation to knock the wall down.

"What is this Damien?" the question seemed to reverberate off him. He opened his mouth, his tongue felt like sandpaper.

"I.." he stammered, what would he say. She continued to trace the Dark Mark inquisitively, she was silent, but her body language was showing she was clearly demanding an answer from her. Draco could feel his arm warm, and remember the feeling of an intense searing pain shooting up his arm. His eyes widened as he looked down at the mark, it was glowing its proverbial shade of green. Draco could feel tears well in his eyes, and Christa's eyes widened. She jumped back in surprise as if somebody had just smacked her in the face, and Draco remained frozen in his spot, unsure of what to think. The Dark Mark hadn't glowed for nearly nine years.

"What the fuck!" Christa managed to sputter; she stepped back from Draco. His face was flushed, his eyes locked on the Dark Mark. He could feel the warmth from his arm slowly diminish, and the glowing green hue slightly fade, but the mark had changed. It was no longer a faint reminiscent scar, it was as clear as the day it was first seared into his skin. 

"I…" Draco managed to stammer; he was at lost for words. However, Christa was not.

"What was that?" she shouted, her voice echoing off the walls of the empty restaurant. Draco stared back at her; his jaw seemed paralyzed for it refused to move. He wasn't sure if it was his jaw, or his mind, that was stunned. All he could ask himself is, _why? _Draco could feel a strange sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach, something was happening. It was if some strange sixth sense was foretelling him of something. Draco attempted to swallow the lump in his throat; the last occasion he had this feeling was when he was nearly caught in Romania. He slowly bent down, his hand resting on a plain box underneath the bar. It was where he kept it.

"Answer me! I…" her voice seemed to trail off, her lips moving quicker than her mind. "Why won't you tell me who you _are?_" Christa screeched from the corner, her eyes were slightly boggling out of her head. Draco stared back at her, eyes wide, as the hue of midnight blue slowly faded, as if spiraling back in time. _This is not good. _Draco could feel his insides scream, his muscles growing slightly taunt as they reach out for the box concealed by the bittersweet mahogany of the bar. He licked his lips slightly in preparation for the inevitable; if he wanted her to stay around, he could lie to her no longer. 

"You're right, Christa. I haven't been entirely honest with you about my past." His lips seemed to cease to function as he struggled to put the flurry of emotions he was feeling into a complete sentences. She continued to stare back at him; the wrinkles at the corner of her eyes were no longer refreshing. Those sweet folds of skin, crinkled up as tears slowly began to form in the crevice of her eyes, felt like a double-edged sword being thrust into his heart.

"What was that?" she asked again. The tone of her voice had softened, but she still wore a look of acute melancholy.  Draco could feel his head lower as he felt himself answer her.

"It's…" he paused, his fingers fumbling listlessly to unlatch the lock of the wooden box. "My father…" Draco could feel himself stammer. He could hear Christa's chic boots clank loudly against the floor as she walked closer, but he still remained indifferent, head bowed, searching for the right words to explain the glowing mark emblazoned on his arm. _Tell the truth! _ He could hear one of his more positive inner voices urge.

"Back in England, I was the only son of a prominent family. However, my family wasn't exactly the most moral of people…" Draco could feel the familiar lump in his throat slowly rise. "My father, and dozens of other families, were loyal followers of a man who's views, and tactics were much different then others. It was almost a right of passage, being apart of these families, and a follower of this man. Then," Draco choked back his tears hesitantly, his grip suddenly tightened around the thin piece of wood. The object almost felt foreign to the touch. "My father, who was a pivotal figure in the public eye, was soon found out as a follower of this dissenter. My father saw no fault in this man; he almost _worshipped _him. He would of done anything for him, even die." Draco finished. He guiltily wiped a tear that had fallen from his eye. Christa was now standing across from him, her eyes wide, her heart and mind taken in the information simultaneously. Draco cleared his throat loudly, the awful feeling in the pit of his stomach was growing; danger was drawing closer. 

"You're an orphan…" Christa mumbled, her mind finally piecing two and two together. Draco looked up at her, desiring nothing more than to see _her _again. Hoping that the past eleven years of his life was all a dream, and he was back, safe in her arms again. He continued to stare at Christa, as her sharp features slowly softened. A small smile came to his lips as her sweet face came into focus on top of Christa's. Her long chestnut brown locks, he even could still inhale the light spring like scent of her hair. He could feel his heart swell for her slightly as he watched Christa's slightly sunken cheeks, slowly expanded, filling out in all the right places, then he watched the skin slightly flush. Then, the eyes, the window to her sweet soul; he remembered those the best. He smiled, a true genuine smile as Christa's eyes widened, filling with the emotion and love that he had never seen before in another living creature.  Nothing could replace her, no one could imitate her, and he couldn't get over the fact he would never get her again. Hopefully, if aurors were soon approaching as his inner instinct was warning him, they'd take him to Azkaban, and hopefully he'll be stripped of all his thoughts, and his soul too if he was lucky. It was the only way to get _her_ out of his mind.

"Is that why you ran away? Your parent's dying?" her question seemed to bounce off Draco as if he was made up of some sort of rubber. He had been allowing everything and everyone to bounce off him for too long, he had to make a change, and it was time. It was time for him to stand up. The gut-wrenching discomfort in his stomach was now nearly unbearable. "Why?" she asked again. 

Draco looked up at her, _Why? _Why did he do all the things that he had done? Why did he allow himself to fall for her? Why… why did he betray his friends? Why was he friends with them in the first place. Why, why did he choose to go out to the Forest that fateful night? Why did he want to end it all that night, was it actually that bad? Why did he let Blaise kill Sam? _Why _did he leave her? Why, Why, Why, it was all he could ask himself, for it was all he asked himself anymore. Why did he allow himself, mentally and physically to slip, to let down his guard, to unmask himself for all to see? Why did he allow the world to realize that behind his snotty exterior was someone was damaged, hurt, angry, _afraid. _Why? Her question was almost baffling, for much to his surprise. He _didn't _know exactly why he had down what he had done. Why?

He liked to tell himself, he was doing it for Hermione. For her own good, for his own good, for the good of everyone. He used to feel that _their _world was better without him in it. He also told himself, that all he ever caused Hermione was pain. However, over the years, as his mind and heart matured, he really began to speculate his true reason for leaving. Was his leaving England a selfless act or a selfish one?  He looked up at Christa, the sadness reflecting eerily in the deep blue pools of her eyes, as she anticipated for his answer. Draco opened his mouth, however, before his lips could even form the words, the door to the restaurant was flung open quite forcefully. Two robed figured immediately stepped into the room, their faces hidden, their arms both reaching out for Draco.

Draco, loosing all sense instilled in him, acting solely on the mix of the fear of being caught and his catlike reflexes, brought his hand containing his small wand, and pointed it at the mysterious figures looming dangerously in the doorway. He was ready; his lips stiff with tense excitement to utter an incantation, he had almost forgotten about Christa's presence. Much to Draco's surprise, the two figures turned to each other, and broke into a dry laugh. 

The robed figures turn to each other before disrobing. Draco almost immediately recognized the taller, leaner man. He wore a pair of silver wire rimmed glasses; his hair was long, messy, and uncut. His cheeks were slightly sunken in, and on his forehead was the jagged lightening bolt-shaped scar. Beside him stood a somewhat stocky man, with fire red hair, and big brown eyes. Draco could feel his face contort into a scowl, before him stood Harry Potter, at his side however, was not Weasel, but one of his older brothers. Draco could feel a strange glimmer of curiousness as to why Harry would be on a mission to capture his arch-nemesis, Draco Malfoy, without his sidekick.

"Where's Weasel Potter." Draco asked Harry. Draco was somewhat surprised at the own coldness in his voice, however he felt he had to keep up his image in front of Harry. Hopefully he could retain at least some of his dignity before Potter would apprehend him. Harry snorted loudly before replying; Draco did not remember Potter being so defiant.

"What's going on with your hair mate, and your clothes?" Harry spat, his tone quite cruel. Draco stared back at him, his jaw locked, his hand still clutched tightly around his wand.

"Put your wand away, we're not going to hex you or anything." The Weasley said slowly, speaking for the first time since arriving, his hand still gripped firmly around his wand. Draco could feel his eyes lingered on Christa, her eyes were wide once again, however her expression was some what vague, some what puzzled. 

"What's going on Darien, do you know these people?" she asked quizzically. Draco stared at her, the sad sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach returning. He knew why these two people from his past had come, to take him back to his punishment. What saddened him the most was he could never tell Christa the entire truth, it'll look like he was the running, he couldn't run again, from nothing nor no one, and not from her for she needed him. He stared at her for what seemed like an eternity, all contempt he held for Harry Potter seemed to melt to away as he stared at her, empathizing with her. Imagining how confusing this whole encounter was for her. She had grown to love a kind man named Damien. She had befriended him; she had him for four years. It would be more than strange to be looking at someone you thought you've known for so long, holding a wand and talking to strangers in black trench coat like outfits. 

"Darien." Draco could hear Harry snort loudly. "Sorry, " he turns to a baffled Christa, "His name isn't Darien." Harry replied rather cruelly. Draco stared at him, taking mental note of the newfound coolness in his demeanor. 

"And yes he knows us." The Weasley, who Draco finally recognized as George, Ron's older brother, piped in. Draco looked back at Christa, who was becoming more than confused. He bowed his head, suddenly feeling ashamed as he loosened his grip around his wand. Was he planning to surrender?

"You're coming with us Draco." Draco could decipher one of them command, not sure of who had sputtered the order. He seemed to be buried up to his neck in quicksand, for everything seemed to be moving in slow motion as he drowned.

"Draco?" asks Christa.

"I'm not going anywhere." Draco said tartly, his grip was now tightening around his wand again.

"Why won't you answer me, what's going on?" Christa demanded again, her tone growing loudly as she grew more upset.

"Hear me out, you're not being sent to Azkaban. Albus Dumbledore will see to it that you won't. Trust us." Harry replied, still ignoring the curly headed Muggle before him. George and him were now approaching him. Draco attempted to swallow the frustration in his voice, he couldn't run now, they had him cornered.

"Darien." Christa snapped again, her tone demanding Draco's attention.

"Christa," Draco turns to her, he had to tell her, "These people… they are a part of reason why I left England. I got into a lot of trouble." Draco muttered to her. Christa looked back at him, a strange look of sadness washing over her face, however she remained silent. Draco turned to George and Harry who were exchanging strange smug looks with each other before grabbing the auburn haired man forcefully. Draco attempted to turn his head, to look back at Christa, to call out to her. He needed at least to _try _to provide her a real explanation. However, as they began to silently drag him through the streets of New York, everything seemed to morph, as his mind lulled, they must of cast some sort of spell on him. Draco could feel a strange feeling replacing the one of pain in the gut of his stomach; it was light and bubbly, lifting him up. He almost felt like he was floating, and his skin felt like a dozen rose petals were silently kissing him all at the same time. As much as he hated to admit it, he loved it. It was mind numbing, he closed his eyes, letting himself drift into a sweet dreamland, almost forgetting his destination. 

However, Harry Potter and George Weasley were very much alert, and very much worried. Bringing Draco Malfoy back to Britain was like opening a can of worms. Each one of them were equally afraid of the results, but they both had their own distinct reasons. However, it was open now, and both men simply tried to savor the quiet before the storm. 


	5. Part Four

**Part Four**

Ronald Weasley 

***~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~***

**"And I don't know where you went when you left me but**

**Says here in the water you must be gone now**

**I can tell somehow**

**One hand on the trigger of telephone**

**Wondering when the call comes**

**Where you say it's alright**

**You got your heart right**

**We share the sadness**

**Split screen sadness**

**All you need is love is a lie cause**

**We had love but we still said goodbye**

**Now we're tired, battered fighters**

**And it stings when it's nobody's fault**

**Cause there's nothing to blame at the drop of your name**

**It's only the air you took and the breath you left**

**Maybe I'll sleep inside my coat**

**And wait on the porch 'til you come back home**

**Oh, right**

**I can't find a flight**

**So ill check the weather wherever you are**

**Cause I wanna know if you can see the starts tonight**

**It might be my only right**

**We share the sadness**

**Split screen sadness**

**And I know it was me who called it over but**

**I still wish you'd fought me 'til your dying day**

**Don't let me get away**

**Cause I can't wait to figure out what's wrong with me**

**So I can say this is the way that I used to be**

**There's no substitute for time**

**Or for the sadness**

**Split screen sadness**

**We share the sadness"**

**'Split Screen Sadness' John Mayer**

***~*~*~*~**~*~*~*~*~**

Ron Weasley stood hesitantly and stiffly in the center of a massive crowd of people.  He hesitantly loosened his tie , wishing he hadn't of chosen the piece of fabric as a part of his attire. He whirled around the room, his eyes scanning the occupants of the room. This was his twenty-seventh birthday, and on the outside, he looked to be bringing in the new age quite fine.

His lavish three story villa in the British countryside. His fleet of sophisticated convertibles, and sedans. The well manicured yard with its neatly placed  fountains and flower gardens, trees, rosebushes, and shrubs. His new job as Head of the Department of Games and Sports, the youngest head in all the Ministry's history.  His Quidditch team, the Chudley Cannons, who were well on their way to participating in the World Quidditch Cup.  From an outsiders view, for a man who rose up out of poverty, into a successful, rich, and powerful figure in the Britain's wizarding community; his life was amazing.

However, on the inside, Ron almost felt a sense of dread. The more successful he got, the more he realized people were beginning to expect of him, and the less fun he had. He no longer looked at life in the funny lighthearted way that he did before. Without Hermione, everything that once was in vivid technicolor, were now washed over and dulled to a series of monotonous tones of gray. Then what was worse, the only emotions he could feel anymore, were stress and anger. Ron slowly brushed his way past a group of wizards he didn't know. He snorted to himself finding it strange that most of these people at his birthday party strangers. Sometimes he felt like he wanted nothing more than to disappear into the crowd. He scanned around the room again, his eyes locking on Hermione. 

She was standing almost on the opposite side of the room, she was wearing long flowing soft periwinkle dress robes, and her hair was loose and flowing about her shoulders. She looked up at him, her brown eyes sparking, before her eyes fell from him again. Ron stared at her, his jaw dropped in awe at her sheer beauty. At that moment he started to feel extremely foolish for going out of his way to avoid her for months. Why was he upset anyway? Was it really her fault for feeling the way she did? Was it her fault that she had enough strength to move on from their relationship? Ron could feel his fingers reach for his tie as he attempting to loosen it again. It was beginning to feel like the tie's man goal was to choke him to death before night's end. He slowly galvanized his sluggish feet into action, as he slowly sauntered across the room to her, trying to smile at her at the same time.

"Hermione." Ron said slowly, attempting to make his voice sound vague.  She stared at him expressionless before placing her hand on his shoulder.

"Harry birthday Ron." She said, her voice barely above a whisper. Ron could feel the smile on his face slowly drone. Had the fool inside of him expected Hermione to create a big scene, uttering her true feelings, denouncing her marriage to Fred, then wrap him in a passionate embrace? Ron could hear a dry laugh escape his lips, he strangely found a sense of humor at his own foolishness.  Of course she had only come because she felt obligated to because it was his birthday, not to save their friendship.

"So." Hermione said brightly, her voice seemed to be trying to spark him into an engaging conversation. He stared at her, feeling a short burst of resentment towards her. He was hoping he could make it through the night perfectly numb, now here she was. Just the sight of her was heartbreaking. Now what was she trying to do? Make it seem that nothing had happened between them just five months prior? Was this her way of trying to forget the fact that her ex-boyfriend was now her brother-in-law?

"How's the World Cup going? It's all the buzz around the office." Hermione said gaily. Ron resisted the urge to roll his eyes at her; this was the first time they had spoken in months, and he was asking her about work? Ron forcefully shoved his hands in the pockets of his robes, suddenly finding the floor more interesting than her beautiful soft face.

"Just quit it 'Mione." Ron said, his voice low. Hermione looked up at him, her eyes slightly widening in surprise. Ron scoffed, did he actually expect him to swallow all of his resentment in the first ten minutes of conversation? Ron could feel himself lock eyes with Hermione. Much to his surprise, her eyes were dry, however her face held a piteous look. She licked her lips before speaking.

"I've already lost Harry, I can't afford to lose you too. Don't make me make this choice." She whispered, she places her hand upon his chest, an action she did often in the past to beckon him to lean forward. Ron could sense his eyes slightly go red as he leaned forward, she smiled wearily at him before brushing her lips softer across his nose tenderly before pulling away. She stared at him one hard time before shaking her head, and turning on her heel and disappearing into the crowd of strangers. Ron stared at her as she left before momentarily cursing at himself for making her upset.He could feel the eyes of everyone at the party on him, big eager eyes, locked on him, ready, intent on pouncing. Why did he feel like there was a big target drawn on his forehead now that he was a Head? 

Ron slowly began to make his way through the partygoers, with an occasional pat on the shoulder, kiss on the cheek, or a handshake before he finally ,made it out of the crowded formal sitting room and into the foyer. He was unsure of where he was going, but his feet were leading him listlessly to an unknown location. He slowly sauntered up the spiraling oak staircase, and made a series of turns before reaching his destination. He stepped into the empty library on the other side of the villa, he sighed loudly as he plopped down on a chair and put his face in his hands. He rarely sat in the library of his own house, the room was too expansive for him. Immediately after purchasing the villa, he soon realized how alone he was. So he would often avoid all of the large extravagant rooms, and huddle himself into the smallest rooms of the manor, the only cure to his loneliness. His heart could not bear the stress and pain anymore. Ron lazily sat back in his chair, drifting in and out of random thoughts when he heard the door slam and the door lock with a soft click.  
  


"Ron…" someone whispered. Ron set up intently in his chair, trying to find who had uttered his name and ruined his moment of silence. His eyes drifted around the large library until his attention finally rested on the three silhouettes by the door. Ron slowly rose to his feet and walked closer as the obscure figures finally became clear. Ron could feel his face contort into a scowl of utter frustration, then he could feel his heart skip a beat, and his mind began to whirl. Before him stood a muddy Harry, a befuddled George, and a strange looking auburn haired man, who's face, much to his dismay, Ron had never  quite forgotten.

"Who the hell is that?" Ron asked, his voice slightly coming out high pitched. He knew perfectly well who it was that stood between his brother and his best friend, but the fact that he had important people in the villa from the Ministry, including the Minster of Magic, made him hope that he was sadly mistaken. 

"He tried to get away!" George exclaimed in a slightly boisterous tone, as if he was still upset that the captive had attempted to escape.  The auburn man, who's arms were twisted together as if they were bounded by the magic of not one, but ten wizards, let out a small snort.

"It's Malfoy." Harry said in a slightly mollifying tone. Ron stood before them, as the situation suddenly ebbed from bad to worse. 

"Malfoy… in my house… _now_." Were the only words that a shell shocked Ron could utter. Not only had the Elite captured Malfoy without the Ministry's permission, Kingsley Shacklebolt was completely unaware of the Elite's plan, better yet, he was unaware of the _existence _of the Elite. Ron knew, he'd be joining Harry in the search for a new job if Malfoy was discovered in his home.

"I…" Harry's voice trailed off, his hand was firmly gripped around Malfoy's bicep. Ron's eyes suddenly fell on a silent Malfoy. He had gained more weight, and his face was slightly less pointer then it had been ten years prior. He no longer held his snotty and debonair attitude, for the first time, Ron could actually sense his fear. It was palpable, collecting, condensing and dripping off of his body in lumps. He was terrified. Ron bit his lip hesitantly as he remembered the look of dread in Draco's eyes the day he had confronted him in the corridor at Hogwarts. He held that same look of fear. However, the question that fascinated Ron was, what was he afraid _of_?

"We don't have any place to hold him where the Ministry wouldn't find him." George finished for Harry. Ron quickly flashed his brother a scornful look, he almost had forgotten that his brother was there.  Ron shoved his hands in the pockets of his royal blue dress robes, as the foolishness of the comment began to sink in.

"I _am _a Ministry official!" Ron snapped, he noticed almost identical looks of slight agony on Harry and George's faces, and a look of surprise on Malfoy's face. "Do you lot understand the mess I'll have to clean up if they find him in my house?"

Harry and George exchanged weary looks with each other. "There's no other place for us to keep him. He'll try to run away again if…" George stammered. Ron shook his head, and pulled his hands out from his pockets. He put one hand on his check, which was blazing hot. He lowered his head, he knew perfectly well that he could easily hide Malfoy in numerous places in the villa, without the chance of him easily escaping.

 "Fine." Ron said, his voice slightly over a grumble. George and Harry both flashed him ridiculously wide smiles, but they both kept both their hands on a motionless Malfoy.

"Where are we going to keep him?" Harry asked, his voice seemed slightly clouded as he looked over at Malfoy, who's head was still studying the parquet floor of the library. From downstairs, Ron could slightly hear the four piece string quartet go into a waltz.

"There's an extra room on the third floor. But, we should keep him in here for tonight. We can't risk him being seen." Ron said slowly. Harry and George both nodded in agreement, as they slowly dragged a complacent Malfoy towards the rear of the library. They silently removed their wands from their robes and muttered several incantations binding Malfoy to a column, silently concealed by a tall walnut bookcase. Ron watched them intently as they finished up, and brushed off their tattered robes before turning to face Ron.

"Harry, there's some dress robes you can borrow in the bureau upstairs." Ron instructed, hiding his obvious command under a subtle suggestion. Harry smiled at him for the first time in nearly a  week. Degrading Malfoy must have brought it about, Ron could feel his mind quip. He was unsure why he was sending Harry away, but he realized he could no longer alienate his brother and Hermione anymore. Even though Percy's mean and selfish behavior years ago had affected him, he could feel himself slowly grow away from his family. On most days, he felt that he was almost becoming another Percy Weasley. Yes, Hermione was once in a lifetime, but she was gone and ready to spend her lifetime with George. Ron would not always have his good job, he may not always have his good fortune, ownership of a winning Quidditch franchise, and he definitely will not always have the money. In the end, his family was all he could count on. Ron could feel his face blush slightly as he stared at his brother, his lips stumbling to utter the words his mind just moved  through. 

"I was wrong…" Ron's voice trailed off, he suddenly could feel Malfoy's presence in the room. He sat at the base of the column, eyes blank, but deadest on him. Ron's mind suddenly abandoned the long heartfelt apology and speech about how he felt when Hermione refused to forgive him for blowing up at her. He also abandoned addressing the issue of the words they had shared at the wedding. George stared at him, waiting for him to speak. "I'm sorry." Ron muttered, wishing nothing more than Malfoy to stop staring at them. 

"Really, it's alright Ron." George smiled at him, the light from the blazing fire slightly illuminating his face. "But, I'm not the one who really deserves the apology." His voice trailed off. Big misty blue eyes, slightly graying as if throwing a piece of sheer silver linen over them, continued to stare at Ron. _Stop it! _His mind wanted to scream. His eyes almost seemed prying, crushing his mind open like a nutcracker. Ron quickly turned his attention to his brother, his words slowly relaying to him as if there was a twenty second delay between them. He could feel his eyes roll, expecting George to linger into a speech on respecting Hermione, and her decision and snuff him out for hurting her feelings. However George looked at him, placing a hand on his shoulder rather solemnly.

"You're the one who should be receiving an apology." The older man gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. Ron bowed his head, Malfoy's eyes felt like they were burning a hole into his soul. The younger man could feel his mouth go dry a bit, and his dry tongue slowly wet his lips.

"Going back to your party birthday boy?" he asked, his voice was returning to his cheerful tone. Just his voice seemingly warmed Ron's saddened heart for a few moments. 

"No, I've had enough of it." Ron paused as George removed his hand from his shoulder. "I'll stay up here, you can go back downstairs. Your wife would probably want to know where you've been the past two days." Ron could feel himself wince as he stumbled over the world wife. He had managed to make it through three months without acknowledging the fact that George was married to Hermione. It almost seemed surreal, however he didn't want to utter Hermione's name in the presence of Malfoy. He knew it would be disastrously, not only for him, but for Hermione, it hurt him just to think of her reaction if she knew Malfoy was still alive. Memories of their relationship and Sam's death, which Hermione only spoke of once, on a breezy balmy June night seven years prior. The pain in her voice was enough to make Ron love and admire her for remaining so strong, even after all she had been through. He also had to make sure that Hermione did not know that Malfoy was here, because she would be compelled by his presence, and by guilt to tell George the truth about her relationship with Malfoy. She had candidly told Ron, that he was the only soul, besides Malfoy, that knew the entire truth. Ron could feel tears stinging to come out of the corner of his deep brown eyes as he remembered the night. It was the week before her wedding to George. Ron immediately began to contemplate the fact that Hermione may  told George after their wedding.  The freckled faced man quickly dismissed the thought, he always wanted to have a 'special' connection with Hermione. He couldn't bear the fact that Hermione would open herself up to George, or any other soul, besides him. It hurt more that maybe she had. 

"Thanks Ronnikins!" George's deep yet warming voice snapped Ron out of his thoughts. 

"Welcome." Ron mumbled, shoving his hands in his pockets, his eyes still on the motionless, mud covered Draco Malfoy in the corner of the library. George beamed at him, appearing almost ecstatic that they were back on speaking terms again, before turning towards the door of the library and leaving. 

Finally, Ron thought to himself as he turned to Malfoy. He slowly approached the auburn-haired man, who was now awkwardly slumped on the column. Ron eyes darted around the room, trying to avoid major eye contact with Malfoy. He stared at him for seemed like an eternity before Malfoy finally spoke. 

"Never would I expected the tables to turn." He muttered. Ron looked down at him, unsure of what to say or think. All he could feel was an almost sickening, yet unadulterated feeling of clout and control. He was no longer Weasel, he stood towering over his childhood foe and bully. He was no longer the tormented; so why did he feel so guilty? Ron attempted to swallow the now rising lump in his throat. 

"If you're going to be staying here, we're going to have to make a few mutual agreements." Ron said slowly, his voice barely above a whisper. Draco's faded eyes no longer rested on him, his eyes were now locked intently on the fire. Ron could see the reflection of the fires' embers in the deep cobalt blue of his irises. 

"I don't want to keep you bound up like that, I really want to help Malfoy." Ron continued, he paused as if waiting for Draco to respond. But the man did not.

"Before, I would have doubted if I could trust you. But I know, I can trust you, eh?"

Silence.

"I know everything about you now Malfoy. You aren't the pompous prat you were in Hogwarts, so maybe we can see eye to eye on this. I can keep you out of the hands of the Ministry. You know they are the ones that would lock you up and throw away the key?" Ron knelt down, so he could be at eye level with Malfoy. He still avoided his gaze, his eyes now locked onto the chandelier.

"They think you killed  Sam Austin." Ron said slowly. Draco's face did not even flash just a glimmer of emotion. Ron stared at him, and opened his mouth to speak again, but Draco surprised him, by opening his mouth and speaking.

"I might as well have." Draco muttered. Ron stared at him, his voice sounded groggy, and low, and his accent was almost close to American; his eyes finally on him. Ron slowly rose to his feet, his heart instantly catching in his chest. He felt a small pang of guilt for dredging up  a subject such as Sam, but he felt it was necessary to make Draco aware of the contempt that most wizarding folk held towards him. Ron slowly sauntered over to the a plush chair in the middle of the library; assuming that Draco would say nothing more. However, ten minutes into the dead silence, Draco's voice emerged again, almost catching Ron off guard.

"Does she know I'm here?" his voice shook slightly, as if it belonged to the body of a terrified five year old boy. Ron turned to him, unable to make out any of his features in the darkness.

"No." Ron replied solemnly. He cleared his throat, as he attempted to dig out from within the right words to say to Draco. Should he hint that she moved on? Should he tell the truth? Should he sugarcoat it? Should he lie and say that she's out of town? Ron  wet his lips again, "She won't and can't know you're here. You're here to help us, then we'll send you back to New York. No damage done." Ron whispered, his words were more to reassure himself than to reassure Draco.

"No damage done?" Draco's voice ask, the tremulous quality of it slowly smoothing and steadying out. He almost sounded identical to what he sounded like ten years prior. "I can't go a day without thinking of her. If…" his voice trailed off before he cleared his throat and spoke again. "If you're hear to help me Weasley. Why can't you arrange something? Just the thought of her is looming over me, it's all I can think about. You've got to let me." His voice was now faltering. Ron closed his eyes, wishing nothing more than for Malfoy to stop, for it sounded like he was going to burst into tears. "Just let me see her… I don't have to speak with her."

Ron buried his face in his hands, unsure of what to say to the man sitting feet away from him. He knew perfectly well what it felt like to feel that slightly wistful feeling in the pit of your stomach, and he could even fathom the depth of the love that Draco must hold for Hermione. Then again, he thought of all the damage that would be done if they were to see each other. Things may spiral and explode out of control before Ron would even have a chance to blink. He had to say something, for he could hear Draco's heavy breathing, was he crying?  Ron, his mind racing, and his heart, for the first time in years, genuinely going out to someone besides himself.

"My department at the Ministry is organizing the World Quidditch cup in a few weeks. She'll be there. I promise." Ron whispered, but after he whispered the words, I promise, it was too late. For the words were already uttered, and Malfoy was fully expecting for him to deliver. Ron buried his head in his hands, wishing once again for the ability to disappear indefinately.


	6. Part Five

Part Five Hermione Granger 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

**"****Still a little bit of your taste in my mouth  
Still a little bit of you laced with my doubt  
Still a little hard to say what's going on  
Still a little bit of your ghost your witness  
Still a little bit of your face I haven't kissed  
You step a little closer each day  
Still I can't say what's going on  
Stones taught me to fly  
Love taught me to lie  
Life taught me to die  
So it's not hard to fall  
When you float like a cannonball  
Still a little bit of your song in my ear  
Still a little bit of your words I long to hear  
You step a little closer to me  
So close that I can't see what's going on"**

**'Cannonball' Damien Rice**

***~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~***

**/b**

Hermione bit her lip cautiously as she swirled the contents of her tall glass around in slow smooth circles. She sat alone, looking on at the various people in the room. Her mind was loose and unbound, as she slowly drank away all of her frustrations. George had been gone for two days, and before her first sip of elderflower wine, she was worried sick.

Hermione's soft pink lips touched the glass again, downing the remaining contents of the glass. George's kind reassuring voice echoing through her mind, "I'll be back my daybreak." _Day break my ass. _Hermione could feel herself snarl. He had lied to her. Just for that, he should stay away for two more days to avoid any bodily harm. She hated nothing more than when he felt it was necessary to lie to her. If only he had told the truth, she wouldn't be sitting at the birthday party of a friend who is upset with her. She wouldn't be drinking, and she definitely wouldn't have been groveling.

It seemed it was all anyone ever did to her. She hated the feeling of complete helplessness and noninvolvement. The longer she remained in the Ministry of Magic at her dead end job recruiting Hit Wizards, the more respect people lost for her. Before, when she was fresh out of Hogwarts, she was a force to be reckoned with. She was bound to succeed, powerful, even an inspiration to people around here. Now she was just a mediocre wife, with a mediocre job, and an equally as mediocre life.

Not only was her life mediocre, she was also easily shaken. Before Draco's disappearance from her life, she was able to stand strong and defend herself. Now the simplest troubles, like George not returning from Russia yet, or serious problems like Harry hinting that he knew were Draco Malfoy was; left her broken and shaken. Hermione could barely stand, yet alone think, so George not returning the day after her encounter with Harry was too much. She got up, her head slowly spinning, and began to plow her way to the kitchen to get another glass of wine. She needed it; for it she stopped drinking, she wouldn't be able to control the memories that were flooding her all at once. Everything about Draco was haunting her; she could still hear his voice ringing in her ears. She could still imagine her skin against his, she could smell him, his sweet manly musky smell, she could feel his tongue wrapping around hers, and brushing against her own. Hermione lowered her head, trying to snap herself out of her thoughts. However, the drunker she got, the more she thought of him. She was only a foot away from the doorway leading to the kitchen when she felt an arm wrap around hers.

"Hello Hermione deary!" the voice rang brightly. Hermione turned around and faced a grinning Molly Weasley. The smaller yet plump woman wrapped her arms around Hermione in one sweeping motion. An inebriated Hermione hesitantly returned the gesture.

"How have you been?" the smaller red headed woman asked. Hermione attempted to smile at her, but it felt like more of a wince. She was too drunk to put on a happy façade, she wanted to tell the older woman how she was worried sick because she had not seen George in two days, Ron had frustrated her more, and she had the prospect of Draco being around every corner looming over her precariously. 

"I'm just fine," Hermione lied, the corner of her lips turning upward into a forced grin. The redheaded woman beamed back at her.  Hermione already knew the course of what their conversation would be. She would ask her if she was enjoying the party, how was work, how was George, had she made up with Ron yet; Questions Hermione didn't feel like answering. Hermione could feel herself sigh; she really didn't even feel like thinking. She was too tired, and too weak. Her mind was soft like jelly, and her heart was barely beating, she couldn't handle all the stress and the hurt. However, Harry's words had stuck to her like paste. _I've found him. _Hermione had always assumed that Draco would never return to England. She felt with him and Sam gone, it was the end of an entire chapter of her life. A chapter full of memories, and feelings she didn't ever want to feel again. Being with George helped her try to suppress her fears and feelings from her dark period, but Harry had thrust everything back into her perspective. It was like a foul smelling material that he was waving spitefully under her nose. His eyes gleamed coldly; he was only a mere silhouette of his former self, Hermione hesitantly standing still, wanting to strike back, but too afraid to try. She couldn't ignore it anymore, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't, and she was just too weary to push him and the foul material away.

"Oh, Hermione, when will you come by the Burrow? A few of my friends and I have tea every Tuesday, Fleur comes, so I was hoping maybe my other daughter-in-law would stop by too," Molly smiled at Hermione brightly. Hermione stared back at her shortly, suddenly remembering her empty wine glass. She briefly thought of why Molly had to mention that Fleur came. Hermione always felt a sense of resentment towards Fleur, everyone looked upon her as the _perfect _mate, worker, and person. She closed her eyes; she could still feel the slight tingle as Draco lovingly nibbled on her ear. She opened them again, Molly stared up at her, wearing a particular look of confusion.

"That sounds really fun. If I'm…" Hermione could feel her mind fade out, but her lips continue to move as her eyes fell on the staircase. She could feel all the blood in her face slowly drain away as her normally soft face contorted into one of pure rage. George cheerily made his way down the steps, his face was lit up, and he wore his familiar goofy smile. However, his smile was not enough to suppress Hermione's feeling of unadulterated rage. He spotted his mother and Hermione, and quickly made his way towards them.

"Hello!" he smiled at her, wrapping his arm around the much shorter woman. George turned to Hermione, the smile on his face instantly vanishing when his eyes finally fell on hers.

"George Weasley…" Hermione muttered in a low tone. George flashed her a mortified look, he looked slightly regretful for acknowledging his mother before his irate wife. She turned back to Molly, who seemingly had picked up the hint that Hermione was not particularly happy with her son. 

"Oh, I think I see Remus! If you two need me, I'll be over there. Toodles dearies!" and with a wave of her freckled hand, she was gone. Hermione stared at George for what seemed like an eternity. His face was slightly dirty, but he appeared as if he was wearing a brand new set of dress robes. Hermione could feel her eyes fall to the floor, her anger still bubbling madly from within.

"I've been worried fucking sick about you." She grumbled. George's dark eyes slightly widened when Hermione cursed. She usually never felt the need to curse, but the elderflower wine was overpowering Hermione's sane and calm side.

"I know and I'm sorry." George said quickly. Much to the chestnut haired witch's surprise, he was still smiling. He leaned his head down until his nose was lightly touching hers; he wrapped both of his arms around her waist and gave her a squeeze. Hermione inhaled his soft scent, he smelled almost identical to Ron. The world around them seemed to slow, and blur, and Hermione could feel her mind began to wander again.

She watched intently as George's lips began to move, he was telling her something important. Why was she not listening? She could feel herself ask, his hand were still around her waist. Hermione closed her eyes; she had been in an embrace similar to that one years before. Something about it was so familiar, yet the fantasy seemed almost too intangible. She remained in George's protective grip as her eyes rested on a tall blonde haired man standing behind him. Hermione could feel all the muscles in her body simultaneously grow taut, and her mind suddenly congeal. She could feel a lump slightly rising in her throat, as she blinked again, hoping it was the wine, praying that she was drunk, and she was not laying eyes on what, more like who, she thought it was. 

However, he remained there, his eyes bright, his lips were slightly open as he stared right back at her. He turned to a dark haired man at his side, his lips forming words, and then he reared his head back into a loud joyous laugh. Hermione could feel the lump in her throat harden, she had been in an embrace like this before, and she had seen a man like him before. She blinked, yet again, and he remained. His eyes shown a vivid shade of gray, they seemed almost identical to ones she had laid eyes on before. She closed her eyes, keeping them closed longer, trying to snap herself out of her daze. The memories were too painful, the images too vivid, too real. She opened her eyes, George was still talking, but no sound escaped from his lips. She looked past him, hoping she was having yet another Draco fantasy, but with a different subject, a more haunting subject, a _dead _subject.

He wore stunning jet-black dress robes, and his hair was tossed about lazily as if he had just crawled out of his bed. Her eyes searched the man up and down frantically, praying for the sight she was seeing to be a fantasy. He stood before her, clearer than the day she had first laid eyes on him that eventful summer day over _Hogwarts: A History_. He had now stopped laughing; he turned back to his dark haired companion, running a hand through his dirty blonde hair nonchalantly. She noticed he was young, around the same age he should be. His eyes were bright, and wide, and he had those soft pink lips. Lips Hermione had kissed so many times before.  She could feel herself inhale sharply, as his face spread into a soft, coy half grin. How had she suddenly forgotten how to breathe? She clutched onto to George, as if holding on for dear life. She could feel her intellect start to spin slightly, and her vigor began to diminish.

"Hermione? Are you even listening?" he asked, his voice suddenly cutting through the murky depths of her mind. The stranger had almost put her in a reverie; Hermione couldn't pry her eyes off him to look at George. She was frozen, immobilized. It just couldn't be true, her heart screamed, she had _watched _them lower his casket into the ground. She had thrown a lone white rose onto the black coffin, she had cried for a week straight after losing him. Unsure if mourning for one, more than the other was wrong, so mourning twice as hard than everyone else had. She had fought so hard to pull herself out of her own grief, so hard to try to forget him. Now she was standing before someone, that looked _just _like him, and all at once, all of her suppressed grief was hitting her, overcoming her, piling on top of her, and smothering her to death. He was _dead,_ it could not be happening. It could not be _real; _one does not come back from the dead. Death is entrenched, dark, murky, and eternal. The man was now shaking the hand of his companion. He was leaving, she could feel herself began to panic.

"Hermione?" George said tartly, trying to grab his wife's attention. "Hermione!" he repeated. She couldn't hear him, or didn't want to hear him. She couldn't decipher his words. She turned towards the man, who was slowly making his way past a crowd of young witches, who's eyes all fell on him. She turned back to George, pulling away from his embrace with one last reassuring squeeze. George's lips began to move again, but no sound came out, the only words he could understand were, 'What's the matter' and the name, 'Draco Malfoy.'

Hermione stared back at him, then at the stranger. She felt slightly surprised at herself when she thought of seeing Draco as a more welcome sight then to the mysterious stranger. She quickly turned away from him, finally ceasing to think about Draco for the first time in days. Her wobbly legs carried her after the blonde haired man from her nightmares. She prayed it was a delusion, just a dream, and a drunken hallucination. People do not emerge from the dead, and this man was dead.

She continued to follow him as he made his way into the foyer, where was he going? She asked herself, she didn't care. She continued to follow him; her feet felt like they weighed fifteen times more than they really did. She put one foot in front of the other frantically, her world started to slightly spend around her. Hermione suddenly remember she had nearly eight glasses of wine, the saner side of her self told her the truth, that she was dreaming, but she had dreamed so long of touching him, her drunken inner being was screaming at her to hurry up and catch him, that he was real. That a miracle had occurred, that he had came back to make her laugh again, to make her smile, to help her forget. To make things right again, maybe just maybe Draco would help the Elite track down the other Deatheaters, and return to living in Britain. They'll have a joyful, guilt free and pain free reunion, and be simply friends. Ron would forgive her for marrying George, and Harry would be happy again. She would have a great job, outside of the Ministry, and meaningful life. Moreover, _he'll _be there, guitar in hand, grin on his face, and heart on his sleeve. Draco and him would be best mates again, no strings attached, no jealousy, no resentment. His sweet Aussie accent would fill her ears once again, his sarcastic quips and jibes would full her heart with happiness, and life would be perfect. It would make sense, and all of the jagged puzzle pieces from her past, and all of her tangled relationships and bonds would suddenly become smooth. Maybe he had returned to help her fit all the pieces of the puzzle back together again, and she would be happy.

The man walked through the kitchen, and into the dining room. It appeared as if he was leaving through the sliding glass doors of the breakfast nook. Hermione remained close behind. Tears were blurring her eyes, it couldn't be. He was dead, and the man she was following was probably just a look-a-like. People do _not _come back from the dead. So, why was she so entranced by him? She reached out for the man, in a sweeping motion, grabbing his arm tightly. He turned around, flashing her a look of utter surprise. Hermione eye's widened as she got her first good glimpse of him. The light from the moon shone in through the wide windows of Ron's breakfast nook, giving his face a glowing ethereal glow. Hermione stepped back from him in surprise, as she felt an odd numbing sensation slowly drip from her head, all the way down the length of her body, down to her toes. It felt she was staring into her memories, for his stranger, was more than just a look-a-like. He was the spitting image, the correlative of Samuel Austin. She couldn't stand it anymore, her lips moving faster than her more rational mind.

"Sam?" her voice asked, small and trembling. The man stared at her, his face blank, his eyes bemused. Hermione could feel her heart sink as she looked into his eyes. This was not Sam.

"Have we met?" the man asked in a slightly perplexed tone. Hermione bit her lip; she could feel her face flush intensely. She looked down at the floor, unable to face him now. She felt ridiculously foolish. Of course, it wasn't Sam; Sam was dead.

"No, we haven't," Hermione said softly. The man stared at her a split second before continuing his towards the sliding glass doors of the breakfast nook. With that, he was gone. Hermione sighed, "We haven't," she repeated again once she was alone. _We haven't._

Hermione emerged from a deep and dreamless sleep almost twelve hours later. She sat up in her bed slowly. Her head immediately began to throb as she attempted to look around the room and try to place herself. She moaned; her head felt like a nail was being driven through it. She imagined the looks on everyone's faces as it dawned on them that she, Hermione Granger, was piss drunk. Hermione ran a hand through her tousled hair, she must have passed out in front of them, for she was at home. 

She could feel herself sigh as her thoughts returned to Ron's party. She was a dupe to ever believe that the mysterious stranger could have been Sam. She knew he was dead, but she had let something bottle up inside of her. Like a slow toxic poison, she left it alone, as it struggled to get out, but she just kept on suppressing it. Seeing that mysterious stranger seemed to set it off, set off her imagination, set off her heart, and released the awful sadness she had been holding back for so long. All she wanted to do was crawl into a little ball in bed, and cry for the life lost.

At times, Hermione wondered why she didn't? She had spent so much time with Sam, and yet all her heart could feel was her love for Draco and no one else. She almost felt like she was barreling through her life with her blinders on. She could feel all her memories of Sam slowly hit her, and fill and warm her cold and malnourished soul. She remembered the first time she had ever laid eyes on him. Headphones on, his head down, his eyes scanning rack upon rack of books, his soft smooth voice cutting through the quiet drafty air of Flourish and Blotts. She could feel her lips turn upward into a smile as she remembered the day that she had bit Sam's tongue on accident, she incident seemingly brought them closer together. As the memories came towards her, after years of trying to suppress them, they grew dimmer, and dimmer, and harder and harder. Sam being sorted into Slytherin, Eva, Draco's parents dying. She could almost feel her world slightly spin around her, as her life in her memories began to spiral and descend into the depths. 

She remembered getting caught up in her a morass of all of her guilt and love for Draco. Losing her sight in a moment of passion, abandoning her friends, falling in love with Sam, harder then she ever had expected. Then the memories ended suddenly, with a solitary image. Her hand wrapped around a lone white rose, she could still feel the warmness of Harry's hand wrapped around her spare hand. She could still taste the salty tears in her mouth; hear the mother of Sam's desperate and completely grief stricken calls out to the sky. _Why? _She cried, _Why did you take him from me too? He's all I had left! _ She could still remember her mind slightly tripping over the grieving woman comment, _why did you take him from me too? _Had she suffered a similar loss before? Hermione could remember herself brushing it off, lost in her own grief, frozen, for only two weeks earlier, she was in his arms, uttering that she loved him. It had all fallen apart, Sam was gone, and Draco was gone, forever and for good. The memories were enough to bring her to tears.

 Hermione reached up to her eyes with a tremulous hand, but they were dry. She lowered her head, her fingers tracing the soft embroidery of her bed linens. She lay back in bed, shutting her eyes, hoping that she could get the tears to come. If they came, she could just get it done with, she would not have to think of him ever again, but they never came. Hermione was about to turn over in bed, when a freckled hand reached out and grabbed hers. Hermione looked up as her face flushed in shame, it was George. He stared down at her, and much to her surprise, he was grinning madly.

"Look who has risen from the dead!" he exclaimed, his voice dripping in sarcasam. He kept her hand in his as he sat down on the edge of the bed. Hermione strained to stare up at him, but the sunlight pouring into their bedroom window prevented her from otherwise. Hermione agitatedly swatted at the air as George turned around to glance at the window. He got up and quickly drew the drapes closed before turning back to her.

"Blimey, Hermione!" George exclaimed, Hermione opened her mouth to explain, but he cut her off. "You were _bloody _drunk last night!" 

Hermione attempted to breathe, but it felt as if there was a ton of stones over her chest. Pressing her down, and trapping her. She couldn't defend herself, and her reasons for drinking so much, for even she did not know why. George stared at her shortly before sitting back down on the bed. The pair sat in an awkward and dim silence before the red head finally spoke. 

"I know I worried you, but even worry wouldn't drive you to drink that much," He said silently, all of the sarcasam in his voice had disappeared. Hermione stared straight at the ceiling, afraid of making ere contact with her own husband. She felt ashamed. She loved the bright and happy George, and he was rarely ever completely serious with her. Now here they were, and he was serious, dead serious. A colossal foreboding dam still held her tears at bay, but George stood before her, a giant hatchet in hand. Hermione stared back at him, still unsure of what to say to him.

"I..." she stammered. "I was worried about you, that's why I started drinking." She still could not stare into his eyes. He raised his arm, ready to unleash all his agitation with her into the dam.

"You're lying 'Mione." He admonished, his voice dripping in pain. Hermione still could not look back at him, even though she could feel his eyes on her, and his warm hand around hers. The hatchet made contact with the slightly weak brick of Hermione's dam.

"You've been acting strange since you went to see Harry." He stated, his voice was soft and rushed, as if he wanted to hurry her into a confession so he could return to his light and airy self. Hermione  remained still, and quiet, too afraid to reply. As much as she wanted to, she had never really voiced the intensity of her and Draco's relationship, she had simply told him that they were in a relationship that went wrong. The hatchet made contact with her damn for the second time.

So, how could she explain to George, that just the mere thought of Draco returning to her life could have driven her to drink. How could she explain the truly awful feeling of breaking your best friend's heart every time you are within his presence. How would she explain the true panic she felt when George hadn't returned when he had promised? She couldn't blame her drinking on just one thing; it was the stacking, folding, gathering, and doubling pressure that she began to feel. All she wanted it to do was for it to go away, so she could be happy again. She stared up at George for the first time in minutes, as the tears silently began to come, he had penetrated the dam, and behind it was years of tears she had failed to cry. Next thing she knew, she was face first in his lap, sobbing intensely, only pausing to breathe. She looked up in his sad eyes again; his eyes were wet with tears. He stared back at her; with a bittersweet all-knowing look in his face. 

Hermione breathed a sigh of relief; she didn't have to tell him. She didn't have to force herself to utter Draco's name; she didn't have to describe how it made her feel. She didn't even have to say it, for he already knew. He held her in his arms, as she cried. As she lay herself open for him to see, absorb, and understand. She closed her eyes, inhaling his sweet scent, forgetting all of her problems for the time being. She silently continued to enjoy her little piece of happiness. Completely unaware of what was soon to come, and how it was going to turn out to be a strange blessing in disguise.


	7. Part Six

b Part Six 

**  
Draco Malfoy**

****

**/b**

The lantern swung from his perch on the ceiling; moving back and forth rhythmically, the motion almost reminding the man of a pendulum. Draco looked back up, as the rocking lantern slowly illuminated Harry Potter's face in tiny increments. With each flash of light, Harry's look of scorn seemed to intensify as they sat in silence. Draco looked up towards Harry's eye, where the night before, was an immense black bruise. He healed it with his wand seconds after the dull pale purple hue began to show under his translucent skin.

Draco silently leaned back in the plush oak chair. They were seated in a cheap impromptu interrogation room. Ron silently sat at Harry's side. Draco assumed he was pondering something important, for his eyes were not involved anymore. Albus Dumbledore sat calmly at Harry's side; he hadn't spoken a single word since he entered the room.

Draco almost felt like he had returned to a strange alternate universe. Everyone and everything had changed. When the stunning spell that Harry and George placed on him in New York finally wore off, Draco's mind responded in awe with a slight air of indifference. He didn't know what had washed over at him, for he had remained cold and reserved the entire time, until he saw his chance; his chance to his escape.

They had silently dragged him through the cold and quiet streets of Muggle London. They were rounding a corner when his blurred vision caught site of a phone booth. Draco's mind had returned to the pure look of shock and confusion on Christa's normally soft face. He just wanted to tell her something, even if it wasn't the truth, to calm all qualms she possibly could hold into her tiny five foot five frame.

His opportunity came, Harry had entered a tiny dilapidated brick building somewhere in London, leaving Draco with George. Draco remembered his eyes lingering over to George; he was barely awake. His grip around Draco's arms was a light one and he seemed to be mumbling things to himself to stay awake. Draco assumed the man had not slept in nearly a day. He could easily overpower him, and escape. He'd run and use the phone he had seen two blocks away. With a swift kick to George's left shin, Draco was gone.

The following events seemed to happen all in a flash. All he could remember was the sound of his short heavy breaths, as he ran. He could also remember the sound of his sneakers splashing in random pools of water residing in the street. He could hear both Harry and George's footsteps behind him, filling his ears, his mind going completely blank as his body began to act completely on instinct. His mind forgetting the men's constant reassurances that he would not be going to Azkaban, that he was not being punished, but he couldn't trust them. Trust made him lose Sam. Trust let him kill Blaise, and trust led him to leave Hermione. He couldn't buy their bullshit. He could trust no one, feel nothing, and he definitely could not succumb. He was a survivor, a man who acted on his instinct, and attempting to run was completely instinctual and a mistake.

When Draco realized that George and Harry were too close behind him for him to stop at the phone booth, his feet kept moving. He was plowing through the streets, like an uncontained burst of energy, power, and strength. He was zooming; he quickly veered to the left, quickening his pace. He could see no clear destination, as he made his way into a heavily wooded area. Ten yards in, he could feel it. A rising mushiness in the toes of his sneakers, then he could feel the mushy mess on the skin of his calves. He fell forward, his tongue catching a small taste of the gritty and bitter sludge. He could hear heavy heaves, and splashing footsteps before a giant set of arms swooped him up.

Draco could remember his limbs flailing wildly; he couldn't be caught. He couldn't meet his father's fate, and he couldn't trust them. He turned, throwing blind punches at no one particular. The strong arms continued to wrap about him, he cocked his head slightly to the right; he realized that they belonged to Harry. Harry's face was flushed a bright red. His fingers were tightly clinched around Draco's neck, but he couldn't succumb. He continued flinging his fists about, kicking and punching, trying to get Harry to let go. However, much to Draco's dismay, Harry was strong. Draco could feel his body slightly go limp in his hands, as Harry's grip slightly loosened around his neck.

"Don't _ever _try to pull another bloody stunt like that one again," Harry snarled through clenched teeth, he was bent over him, and his hands were still around his neck. "Be grateful I haven't fucking reported you already you slimy git! If you," Harry paused, "place one more toe out of line, and I swear you'll bloody pay you prat! Am I clear, Malfoy?"

Draco looked away from him, afraid to look him in his eyes. Afraid to give him his word, for still after all these years, he still held a high amount of contempt for him. Harry Potter, the golden boy, reduced to grappling an escaped convict down in nearly a foot of mud. Draco looked up at him with weary eyes.

"Clear as crystal," Draco lied. He flashed Harry his trademark smirk. With an exasperated sigh, Harry finally loosened his grip around Draco and lifted him to his feet. Draco's eyes met with George's, before George quickly looked away. Did Draco see pity in his eyes? Did the Weasley actually have the nerve to pity him? 

Draco could feel a strange boiling anger rise up from within. He held an anger so deep that caused his fists to clench, his mind to close, and his fury to explode. He turned to Harry, reared back his arm, and sent his fist straight into Harry's left cheek. Harry let out a sharp groan before falling back in the mud. Draco quickly turned to George, his eyes low, and stuck out his unrestrained arms. George hesitantly muttered a spell binding Draco's hands together before silently picking up an infuriated Harry from the muddy mess. Draco closed his eyes in shame as they led him back to the road. George had every right to pity him, for Draco was no longer at the top. He was at the bottom, face first in the cesspool, barely deserving the right to live.

Draco opened his eyes; he was back in the makeshift interrogation room in Ron Weasley's villa. What was he doing? How did he ever end up in such a position? Ten years prior, his former self would have never imagined his destination to be this. Ron Weasley, wealthy and powerful, a Head of a department at the Ministry. Harry Potter, an actual Auror, Draco couldn't even begin to comprehend how Harry earned enough N.E.W.T's for such a high level job.  Draco could feel a sudden dull ache deep down in his solar plexus as he thought of Hermione. What was she doing? His lips turned upward into a smile, she was amazing. If she put her mind to it, she could possess any high-level job in the western hemisphere.

Harry continued to stare at him, waiting for Draco to speak. He flashed Ron and Dumbledore a strange complacent look, before pushing forward a small flask. His emerald eyes were shimmering feverishly, the swaying lantern casting strange reflections on the dark haired man's visage. Draco looked down at it, he knew perfectly well, what it was, but he had nothing to hide.

Draco reached for the flask, and downed its entire contents all in one swig. Draco could feel his face contort at the bitterness of the drink as it slid down his throat. He had just ingested an entire flask of a truth potion. Draco closed his eyes as a sweet calming warmth rolled all over his body. He could feel the ball of anger and frustration slightly loosen, the door to his mind had been opened. Harry stared at him long and hard before he finally spoke.

"First off, I would like for you to understand the risk we are taking holding you under our refugee." Harry's voice seemed to be hinting at one thing, Draco's sheer audacity to hit him in the face back in the wood patch, while his face was contorted into a forced smile.  Draco's eyes slowly made their way around the room, his eyes resting on Ron, secretly wishing that he would carry out his promise. All he wanted to do was see Hermione; he cared for nothing else.

"Who do you mean when you say 'we'?" Draco had uttered the words before he had even thought about it. The truth potion severely hindered his ability to keep his inquiries to himself. Harry, who seemed caught off guard by the question, quickly readjusted the color of his crisp white shirt.

"The Elite. I've apprehended you under the pretenses that you would help us, the Elite," Harry paused to motion towards Ron and the elderly Headmaster; who both remained silent. Draco wondered why Harry seemed to have more seniority in the interrogation than Professor Dumbledore. "Catch the remaining Deatheaters." Harry finished.

Draco could feel his heart skip a beat. Throughout the years, he rarely ever thought of the fate of his fellow Deatheaters left behind. He rarely contemplated the consequences of him sending the blazing emblem of the Dark Mark into the starless sky that night. Draco could feel his lips forming another question, but he bit down on his tongue hard. He didn't want Potter of all people to see him show concern for his acquaintances from the past.

"As you may know, I defeated Lord Voldemort nine years ago. The Aurors at the Ministry of Magic have tracked down all Deatheaters save for eight. That's where you'll come in Malfoy," Harry said thickly. Draco looked up at him with cold gray eyes; he didn't want to help them.

"However, the Minister of Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt, has loosened his reigns on the Auror department at the Ministry. He has ignored several warnings of future uprisings of hidden Deatheaters. He wants to believe that the war against the dark arts died with Lord Voldemort. But it did not. The Elite knows what it takes to catch the remaining Deatheaters, and win this war again evil at last. You're really the only person who could help us."

"I don't want to do this," Draco replied quickly, his lips once again moving more quickly than his mind. Dumbledore's eyes slightly twinkle as he turned towards Draco and spoke for the first time.

"Draco my boy, we've found you for a reason. You're different from the others, and I'm very much aware you recognize that." The old wizards voice, even after a decade, sounded the same. As much as Draco hated to admit, the sound of his voice was almost calming.

"I know you did something that night on the Astronomy Tower that you didn't wish to do," Dumbledore said softly. Harry and Ron simultaneously lowered their heads, afraid of what Draco might say or do. However, he remained silently, he closed his eyes, fighting the awful memories. He closed his eyes as the sight of Sam's body slightly slumping to the floor from the corner of his eyes and Blaise throwing him his wand flashing across his eyes. It was all too much; too soon, he couldn't take it. Draco buried his face in his hands, trying to keep his composure. He felt as if the walls of the room were slightly closing in around him, and these three looming men blocked his only route of escape.

"This is your chance to make things right," Dumbledore said softly, "To repay your debts to Wizarding society. To clear your name."

Draco shook his head; his hands were silently tightening into fists, as Dumbledore's words seeped into his skin like rattlesnake venom. _Clear his name. _The thought seemed almost ludicrous; his name was blackened for perfectly legit reasons. He was an orphan, he was conniving, and he was a cold-blooded murderer. He could have controlled his anger; he could have turned Blaise in. He could have done the _right _thing by not even showing up the initiation ceremony. However, he had unknowingly triggered a chain reaction, leaving the only true friend he ever had, aside from Hermione, out of his life forever. Then, on top of Sam's death, he had to flee Britain, ultimately leaving Hermione behind.

"I let him do it Headmaster. My name cannot be bloody cleared. I _am _a bad person," Draco managed to mutter. He could feel his cheeks slightly flush, and the rate of his pulse quicken. Dumbledore folded his hands across his chest and leaned back humbly into his seat.

"You're not a bad person Draco," the old man confirmed. However, when most people said this, Draco could tell it was a lie. Nevertheless, for the first time in his life, the old man seemed to be telling him his honest opinion. "You've made bad choices, but deep down you are truly a good soul."

Draco could feel his eyes slightly tear as he locked eyes with the graying wizard. All those years ago, he had tried to help, but his senseless, stupid, and naive former self tried to keep him, and everyone else an arms length away. What could one get into a clenched fist? Barboyle was the only person he had ever let open his clenched fist, what harm would it cause to finally let Dumbledore in as well? Draco could feel his fists slightly go flaccid, his eyes falling from the Headmasters.

"I'll…"Draco's voice seemed to falter, he reached up towards his face with a tremulous hand. He, Draco Malfoy, was crying. "I'll help."

I know it has been forever but I've had so much schoolwork. Then I'm working at revising The Warmth and writing a new story. I've just been so busy, I didn't have a lot of time for this story. For a while I thought I wasn't going to continue this story, but I've changed my mind. So despite that I might not be updating this story for a month ro so, please look forward to it returning new and improved by June or so. During the wait you could read my new story Wisps of Gray. Wink

Thanks!

Alisha

(By the way I have done away with the song lyrics. )


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